


The Road to Hell

by ink_drunk



Category: Alex Stern - Leigh Bardugo
Genre: Accidental Plot, Book 1: Ninth House (Alex Stern Series), By Which I Mean Darlington Swears, Dirty Talk, Emotions Baby!, F/M, Fluff and Angst, Pillow Talk, Porn with Feelings, Resolved Sexual Tension, Sexual Butterfly Effect, Vulnerability
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-07-16
Updated: 2020-10-31
Packaged: 2021-03-04 18:27:36
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 14
Words: 38,118
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25300843
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ink_drunk/pseuds/ink_drunk
Summary: “Hey, Stern.” His voice sounded incredibly level for what was happening. “Is it just me, or is this not especially appropriate behavior for a Virgil and his Dante?”A detailed reimagining of the Manuscript morning-after, and the delightful complications that might ensue over the following week.
Relationships: Darlington/Alex Stern
Comments: 105
Kudos: 185





	1. Prelude

That night, she stayed with Darlington at Black Elm, trying to keep warm in his narrow bed. She awoke to dawn light trickling through the room and Darlington curled behind her, asleep.  He was hard again, the ridge of him tucked against the curves of her ass. One of his hands was cupped over her breast, his thumb moving back and forth over her nipple with the lazy rhythmic sway of a cat’s tail. Alex felt her whole body flush.

“Darlington,” she snapped.

“Mmm?” he murmured against the back of her neck.

“Wake up and fuck me or _cut that out_.”

He froze and she felt him wake. He rolled off the bed, stumbling, tangled in covers. “I didn’t… I’m sorry. Did we?”

She rolled her eyes. “No.”

The barest disappointment flickered across his face, replaced almost immediately by that genial Darlington half-smile — but not so immediately that Alex hadn’t seen it. She also couldn’t ignore the reality of his erection, even as he wrapped the covers around him and lay back down. He was now face-up and rigid on the opposite side of the bed, swaddled like a mummy, radiating shame.

“I’m sorry,” he repeated, his voice rough, cheeks pink.

Alex let her own voice soften. “It’s really okay.”

“It’s really not. I don’t know what came over me. Well, I do —” He risked a glance at her. “I’ve just never had anything else affect me like that. I think... on some level, I thought Hiram’s elixir had made me less susceptible to other potions.”

She sidled closer to him again, her body convex against his stiff one. “That’s an interesting theory.”

“A foolish theory. I was just enjoying the privileges of Lethe.”

He closed his eyes and shook his head slowly, the ends of his hair nearly brushing her hand where it lay curled on the pillow. The old impulse rose in her like a wave: to push it back from his forehead, tell him he didn’t have to worry, that everything was going to be all right.

Alex gave herself a mental shake. She wasn’t Dawes. If he wanted comfort, he could go running to her; she wasn’t about to play mommy to her own mentor.

But then Darlington turned to her with the most devastating expression, as if he were about to shatter into a thousand pieces — not unlike the priceless vessels they’d smashed after the disastrous ritual at Aurelian. She’d realized that night that even the most beautiful, expensive things could be just as easily broken as the rest. At the time it had pleased her: the world may be unjust, the scales would never truly balance, but at least beauty and money were not the impenetrable forces she’d thought.

Yet now, as the flesh-and-blood evidence presented itself, the notion became unbearable. Darlington should never look that way. He was supposed to be the strong one, the capable one, not her.

Unable to stop herself, Alex raked her fingers through his hair, her fingertips just barely grazing his forehead.

And to her surprise, he didn’t pull away.  Instead — slowly, as if underwater — he caught her wrist in his hand and brought it to his mouth. He locked his eyes on hers and gently, so gently, pressed his lips to her pulse point.

It was the most delicate, subtle touch: question and answer all at once. He looked straight at her, risking everything. Needing a response.

And before Alex knew what she was doing, she’d swung a leg over his body and was straddling him, breathing hard. His eyes widened and his own breath caught. He still had her wrist to his lips, but now he released it. She splayed the hand on his bare chest, reveling in the warm, solid feeling of him, hardly believing she could do this. That he would let her. And then, as if on cue —

“Hey, Stern.” His voice sounded incredibly level for what was happening. “Is it just me, or is this not especially appropriate behavior for a Virgil and his Dante?”

He was giving her an out. The last thing she wanted to do was take it.

She leaned in perilously close, bracing herself against his chest as her lips touched the shell of his ear.

“Aren’t you _supposed_ to be my guide into hell?”

It was as if she’d spoken magic words, on par with his inscrutable incantations. His body roared to life, one hand seizing her waist and the other tangling in her hair, pulling her face to his. The last thing she saw was the ocean-blue pools of his eyes — gone from puppy-dog tragic to bold and burning with desire.

Then he was kissing her and every coherent thought fled from her head.

Darlington’s lips were warm and soft, his hands firm yet careful on her body. But it wasn’t just those things and how different they were from what she knew. It was the remarkable experience of kissing him, specifically.

She’d caught his scent as they’d strode around New Haven side by side, but now that mixture of strong cedar and clean sweat was enveloping her, intoxicating her. She’d heard him sigh before that moment — most often because of something she’d said — but now he was sighing into her mouth, a gesture that brought her immense satisfaction.

And of course, she’d seen his hands, his biceps, even glimpsed the corded muscle at his hips whenever he stretched and his shirt rode up. She knew exactly how strong he was, yet she still gasped when, in one swift movement, he flipped her over and pressed his whole body into the contours of hers.

Daniel Arlington, the gentleman of Lethe, was now wrestling her dress over her shoulders and pushing himself rock-hard and urgent against her thighs. From somewhere blissful outside her body, Alex watched herself throw her head back against the pillow, her hair stark against its white linen. She thought she might smirk at the irony, or even laugh at how easily Darlington had come undone. But as she was pondering this, he dragged his lips to her throat and bit down gently — nearly on top of another pulse point, as if he were performing his own rites.

Alex Stern, who prided herself on silence during sex, heard herself make such a raw, strangled noise that it almost didn’t sound human.

Reflexively, she clapped a hand to her mouth. Darlington, apparently still a gentleman, paused in his ministrations. He raised himself up on the heels of his hands, hovering over her so their eyes met. God, those irises were _blue_.

“You okay, Stern?” he asked hoarsely. Like her, he seemed almost to have left his own body for a moment, and now he was struggling to recall how to speak.

Alex nodded. “I’m…” She often grasped for the right words with him, but finding them now seemed impossible. He waited, eyes roving her face, seeming to drink up her every feature. 

She swallowed self-consciously and tried again. “I’m just, you know, I don’t want to take advantage of you. Because of the drug thing.”

His brow furrowed, then he realized what she was saying and laughed. “You needn't worry about that. I felt Manuscript’s poison trickle out of my system hours ago.”

His cheeks suddenly flushed again. “Not that feeling this way is a poison — on the contrary, it’s like sipping the most delicious wine. But I suppose, in the too-much-of-a-good-thing sense, I might still end up with a wicked hangover.” He cocked his head, dark hair falling into his eyes, smiling delectably. “Did that simile make sense? Or was it a metaphor?”

It was Alex’s turn to laugh. “You know I’m not much for literary devices, Darlington.”

“Come on, Stern. This is eighth grade English-level stuff.” His tone was light, and he dipped his head back down to her sternum, skimming his lips over where her tattoos had been — staying cautious _in the throes,_ as he’d once so memorably warned her, but clearly ready to pick up where he’d left off.  Alex gnawed on her own lip, wanting to let him. Still needing to finish the thought.

“I just,” she whispered, able to be truthful now that she was no longer looking into his eyes, “I know what it’s like to not have a choice.”

Darlington stilled, but didn’t look up at her. Instead, he lowered his head further and laid his cheek tenderly against her jutting ribs, encircling her torso in his arms.  Alex was suddenly grateful that she still had her bra and panties on; she didn’t need this moment to be any more mortifyingly intimate than it already was.

Nonetheless, she couldn’t say she disliked having him there. She threaded her fingers through his hair and released a small, shaky sigh. They were both quiet for a minute, maybe more.  Then Darlington spoke again in a voice she didn’t think she’d ever heard before.

“Alex.” He so rarely called her by her first name and, embarrassingly, her eyes pricked with tears. “I am... so very sorry that happened to you. Especially for whatever part our ignorance might have played.” It was fury in his voice, she realized, low and smoldering, like a stove you knew better than to touch. “And perhaps it’s not my place, but for as long as we know each other, I will do everything in my power to prevent anything like that from befalling you again.”

She managed to blink away the emotion just before he sat up and looked at her full-on. Even then, his earnest expression threatened to unravel her.

“Thank you,” she whispered, then laughed weakly. “Have I totally killed the mood?”

“No,” he said seriously, eyes trained on hers. “I’m glad you said something.”

“But you don’t want to fuck me anymore.”

He winced at the vulgarity, and it lifted her spirits. Classic Darlington.

“On the contrary, I feel… well, closer to you now. And you may find this hard to believe, Stern, but emotional intimacy is a turn-on for some of us.”

“Such a perv.” She shoved at his shoulder, the sort of thing a buddy would do, an easy movement that would allow them to go back to being friends. Now she was the one giving him an out.

But before she could retract her arm, he caught her by the wrist, just as he had before — just as he had that first day, she realized. And with heartbreaking tenderness, watching her face all the while, Darlington uncurled her nail-bitten fingers and laid a kiss in the middle of her palm.

Alex drew in a sharp breath, and that was it: she was climbing back on top of him, nipping at his neck, grinding down onto his lap. Darlington shuddered, hardening again almost immediately, but keeping his voice soft and controlled as he asked: “Are you sure?”

_“Yes,”_ she said. And the flames of certainty in her voice must have convinced him, because he wrapped his arms around her again, pulling her as close as possible as Alex lost herself in his touch.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Yeah, it's been done, but I had to do it myself. Be warned (or get excited): next chapter is extra-spicy 🌶️


	2. Impropriety

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _He laughed. “I see you’ve finally taken my advice.”_
> 
> _“What advice?”_
> 
> _“That a little propriety wouldn’t kill you.”_
> 
> _Alex bit back a smile, suddenly feeling much less modest. “But then again, why take the chance?” She let her hands fall away. “Please, give me your most improper retort.”_
> 
> A detailed reimagining of the Manuscript morning-after, continued.

Alex was feeling lightheaded now, in a good way — the best way possible. Darlington gripped her by the waist, holding her firm on his lap with one hand. The other had come to rest between them and was gently stroking the skin between her breasts. She could tell he wanted to tear away her bra, but was forcing himself to move slowly and deliberately. So cautious, so different.

“Is this what you were dreaming about before?” she asked breathlessly.

He smiled hazily, as if still half-asleep, or drunk. “Something like this.” Apparently thinking better of his hand at her breast, he returned it to her waist, then frowned slightly. “Stern…”

For one paralyzing moment, she thought he'd changed his mind — but when he spoke again, he sounded sure as ever, desire curling the edges of his voice. “Would you mind terribly if I took off the rest of your clothes?”

She raised her arms eagerly, like a child. “Be my guest.”

He’d reached around and unhooked her bra before she’d had the chance to really prepare. Even as she shrugged out of it, she felt strangely bashful. She allowed him only a split-second’s glimpse of her breasts before clutching her hands to them, heat flooding her cheeks. 

It made him laugh. “I see you’ve finally taken my advice.”

“What advice?”

“That a little propriety wouldn’t kill you.”

Alex bit back a smile, suddenly feeling much less modest. “But then again, why take the chance?” She let her hands fall away. “Please, give me your most improper retort.”

Darlington didn’t respond at first, only sucked in a breath and stared hungrily. Then, without warning, he’d pushed her back against the headboard and was trailing kisses down her neck and collarbone, his destination clear.

“That’ll do,” she gasped, as his tongue found her nipple. Caution in the throes be damned, apparently — though of course, she’d never had her breasts tattooed, only the skin adjacent.  _Thank god for that,_ she thought, as her fingers wound into Darlington’s hair. He showed no signs of stopping, moving from one breast to the other, swirling his tongue divinely as she arched into his mouth.

“Stern,” she heard him murmur against her, “you are a beautiful specimen.”

“I’m not some butterfly you can keep in a box.” She meant it as a quip, but it came out too harsh.

“Rest assured, I’m well aware of that.” Now he was kissing down her stomach, which gave a nervous flutter when she realized where he was headed. “But I can still appreciate you.” He came to a stop in the slightly concave area between her hipbones and looked up, seeking her approval, though she could see he was desperate to keep going.

She nodded, unable to speak, and he pressed a soft kiss to the thinnest part of her panties. She assumed he wouldn’t be able to resist pulling them down — wasn’t that exactly what he’d been trying to do last night? — but instead he tongued her through the fabric, causing her hips to roll wildly.

_“Darlington!”_ Her heart was racing. She wondered if he could feel it all the way through her. “Fuck!”

She felt him smiling. “Good?”

“Jesus. I think you know.” She was ready to beg. “Take them off. Now, please.”

He needed no further encouragement, slipping a finger under her waistband and sliding them off her body in one smooth motion. Alex had wondered, and feared in this moment, that it was only the clothing itself that had driven him to distraction last night; after all, she wasn’t normally so scantily clad. Without a stitch on her, would he still want her? Her skinny, broken body, marred as it was by past mistakes?

The ravenous look in his eyes laid all her worries to rest. Before she even had time to feel relief, his mouth was on her, glorious, transcendent.

“ _Fuuuck_ _me_.” She was no longer even trying to stay quiet — or rather, she’d determined it was a lost cause. Darlington had either had years of practice, or was as quick a study here as with actual linguistic tongues. He was licking her in long, slow strokes, holding fast to her hips. She couldn’t believe how good it felt; Len had gone down on her a handful of times, but it had never, ever come close to this.

Darlington began to pick up the pace, looking up briefly to gauge her reaction. It nearly killed her to see him there, flush between her legs just as (she could admit it now) she’d imagined him last night.

“God. Don’t stop,” Alex choked out, dropping her head back against the pillow. She truly couldn’t bear to look at him, but she reached down to twine her fingers into his hair. He took it as a cue and pressed one of his own long fingers to her entrance, tacitly asking for permission. _A gentleman, as always._

She gave another strangled moan and he slipped the digit inside her, groaning when he felt how wet she was. His mouth moved to her clit, a little more roughly now, almost nibbling as his index finger stroked experimentally.  He soon added another finger, then another, curling into her, moving deep inside — and Alex could feel the heat roiling in her abdomen, felt herself hurtling uncontrollably toward the brink.

“Wait, wait, wait.” He pulled all the way back, mouth and fingers both, and she missed them immediately. His hair was disheveled and he wore an alarmed expression. It dawned on her that he thought he’d hurt her.

“Oh no, sorry, I didn’t mean it like that! It feels incredible,” she said in a rush. “But I don’t want to… I want us to go together.” She glanced down to where his erection strained against the fabric of his boxers, so hard it looked genuinely painful. “I mean, when I said _wake up and fuck me_ , I wasn’t kidding around.”

His eyes darkened with desire, and he didn’t wait for a repeat before lunging up to kiss her, more fiercely than before. She tasted herself on his lips and was surprised that it didn’t repulse her — on Darlington, she mused, even she became more tolerable.

“Protection.” He’d pushed off his boxers and was groping blindly for the top drawer of his nightstand, refusing to shift his eyes from her face, as if scared she might vanish beneath him. She stilled his hand before he could knock something over.

“I’m on birth control.” And had been since she was fourteen, but this might be the first time she'd felt happy about it.

“You’re not worried about… anything else?” he said hesitantly.

It took her a second to register his meaning. “You mean STDs?” He nodded, suddenly shy, despite their naked bodies mere inches away from one another. “I’m not worried about getting them from _you,_ Darlington. You’re pure as driven snow. I mean, just look at you…”

Alex allowed her gaze to travel downward again, taking in his marble statue torso, the fine brown hair that trailed toward his groin, the coarser hair that began around the base of his cock, and — _oh._

“Well, I don’t doubt you could do some damage with that thing,” she stammered. “But I trust you. And I —" God, she was pathetic. “I haven’t had sex with anyone since I got here.”

Darlington quirked a smile, then leaned in, warming her ear with his breath.

“That shouldn’t make me happy,” he murmured, “but I’m selfish, and it does.”

And now he was hovering over her again, those impossibly blue eyes burning into hers as he positioned himself. He captured her lips in a searing kiss, and Alex felt him nudge her legs apart, ready to finally make good on the bargain he’d unknowingly struck with her that morning.

“Let’s go to hell in a handbasket,” she whispered into his mouth. Darlington nodded and drew in a deep breath — perhaps trying to calm himself, to no avail.  He slid into her, up to the hilt, and his eyes went as wide as full moons.

“Fuck!” he gasped. Alex was flooded with the inimitable sensation of another Darlington familiarity, experienced in an entirely new context.

“Was that profanity or a declaration of love?” she teased.

He could only shake his head and screw his eyes shut, balling the sheets into fists beside her shoulders.  “Just give me a minute,” he said weakly.

Alex couldn’t wait. She raised her legs, crossed them behind his back, pulled him in just a little deeper. He groaned helplessly, eyes still closed, a light sheen of sweat on his forehead.

She put a hand to his cheek and forced him to look at her. Pushed the sweaty hair from his face. He was so handsome — a fallen angel lying with her in hell.

“Hey,” she breathed.

That was all it took to steady him. He pulled himself back, eyes trained on hers, and plunged into her all the way. This time, they both swore: him in Latin, her in mangled Ladino.

But Darlington was in control now. He angled himself close to her body and began thrusting fast and deep, murmuring what sounded like a prayer into the hollow of her throat. Alex’s arms flew up to the headboard, trying to gain purchase against the exhilarating force of him.

“Hey,” she said again, out of breath, changing tactics. “Hold me down.”  She offered him her wrists. Darlington hesitated, then pinned them firmly but carefully, altering his angle so he wouldn’t lean too heavily on her.

He was going less deep now, but reaching a new and different place, a spot that drew a moan from her lips with every thrust. He screwed his eyes shut again and a low moan escaped his own throat. Alex felt his hands tighten around her wrists like manacles.

“You’re so _wet,_ ” he growled — and in his feral state, couldn’t even bring himself to look ashamed.

A dirty little thrill shot through her. She’d wanted him gentle before, when she was vulnerable. But now she wanted to see how far she could push him, until they both tumbled spectacularly over the edge.

“I like when you talk like that,” she crooned in his ear. “Keep fucking me, and keep telling me about it.”

“You have no idea how good you feel. Fuck,” he gasped again. “Alex. I’m already getting close.”

“Hold on a little longer, baby.” It slipped out of her mouth before she could stop it, but he barely seemed to notice. Darlington, her Virgil, her mentor and thank-god-not-her-cousin, was now rolling himself in slow circles inside of her — hitting every sensitive spot she had, some of which she hadn’t known about until this moment.

His motions were focused and precise, but his ragged breathing revealed how much it was taking for him to hold on. As if trying to ground himself, he brought his hands back to her hips and began rubbing circles over her tattoos with his thumbs, in time with his movements within her.

She drank in his wild eyes and knew he was right: he wasn’t far off from coming, and to be honest, neither was she. _Time to change tactics again._

Alex pushed at his chest with all the force she could muster and he froze. She wanted to whine, but instead she said: “Let me get on top.”

She expected resistance, but Darlington wrenched out of her immediately and settled himself against the headboard, slick and throbbing in the raw air. “Come here,” he said in a low, urgent voice.

He didn’t need to tell her twice. She positioned herself delicately above him, lingering for just a moment to ensure she had a decent grip on the headboard. Then she sank down in one fluid motion, letting him fill her all the way to her core.

Darlington released a soft cry and snapped his head back, cracking it against the wall. She raised herself, tantalizingly slow, and sank onto him again. His hands flew to her hips to try and adjust her rhythm; he clearly wanted her to go faster, but she wouldn’t give in that easily.

“Shhh,” she soothed him. “If you want it, tell me more.”

He knew what she meant and was eager to please, a model student through and through. “Your breasts are so beautiful,” he said, voice gone hoarse again. “I love seeing them this way. I’ve wanted it since the day we took off your tattoos.”

“So the first day you met me,” she said, rocking gently against him.

“Yes. And more than that — I wanted to back you up against the shelves of the armory, because I knew no one would find us there. I could take my time kissing you, touching you… making love to you.”

“Fucking me?” She hovered over him, waiting. She would make him say it.

“Yes,” he breathed. His eyes were so dilated, they looked almost black. He dug his nails into her back, as if to punctuate it: “Fucking you like this.”

“Mmm. Good boy.” She rewarded him with a particularly long plunge, then began rolling her hips in earnest, moving more quickly and deeply than before. Darlington groaned, spent in the conversation department, and moved his own hips to sync up with hers.

They wouldn’t last long now, nor did Alex want them to. She’d gotten what she’d wanted and was aching for release — and despite how close he’d been before, she knew that she would be the first to go. Even as she sped up on his cock, she could feel herself tipping over into that glorious abyss, desperate to take him with her.

“Oh god,” she said, her voice trembling, vision blurring. “Oh god. Oh my god. _Darlington_.”

She ground down as hard as she could, and stars exploded in front of her eyes. She’d just finished riding out the first intense wave when he shuddered, pouring himself into her, one hand at her breast and the other in her hair.

His breathing finally slowed, and he looked up at her, almost embarrassed.

“I could have held off longer if you hadn’t said my name like that,” he whispered. She smiled beatifically and kissed the bridge of his nose, reluctant to lift herself off him, still enjoying the last lapping waves of pleasure.

“That’s exactly what I hoped would happen, you dumbass.” Before he could respond, she’d rolled away and sprinted neatly to the bathroom. Birth control notwithstanding, she didn’t want to make a mess in his bed.

The light was dim in the bathroom, but as she mopped herself up, she could swear there were ink smudges on her arms and clavicles. _Damn,_ the tattoos. They’d been so careful — though then again, maybe they hadn’t. At this moment, Alex couldn’t really bring herself to care.

She skipped naked back into Darlington’s room, now dappled in morning sunlight, and threw herself down on the bed. “My tattoos are back. Well, kind of back.”

“What? Oh, shit,” he said. She wondered if casual profanity would be a lasting effect of their tryst. “I’m sorry.”

“You don’t sound very sorry.”

“You caught me — I’m definitely not.” His face split into a grin, and he hauled her up on the bed to meet his eye level. Though she’d just spent ages staring straight into them, a few minutes away had re-sensitized her, and her heart skittered at the sight of that striking blue.

Now he ran a finger over her collarbone, tracing the outline of a snake that had reappeared. “We’ll have to put the ink moths straight to work.”

“Do we? Aren’t we just going to undo all their work again in due course?”  His eyebrows nearly arched right off his forehead.  “I mean,” she added hastily, “only if you want to.”

“Stern.” He tilted her chin up, like a lover in a movie, and she jutted it out rebelliously. “You cannot possibly know how much I want to.”

“Okay. Good. Same page.”

“Same page,” he murmured.  Then he stretched those lean-muscled arms above his head, joints cracking and popping in his shoulders. A mighty yawn escaped him, turning his mouth into a wide _O._

“Sleepy,” she teased, even as she stifled a yawn of her own.

“Sex-drunk,” he corrected, voice rumbling. He slid back down among the sheets, pulling her with him and settling his hand on the curve of her waist. Their faces were inches apart again; it amazed and unnerved her how, even this close, he could still look so perfect.

Darlington brushed the tangled hair from her face, mimicking the gesture that had set all this in motion. His hand on her cheek, his blue eyes in the sunlight, his warm, platonically ideal body pressed against hers — it was almost too much to bear.

“What’s going to happen now?” she whispered, unable to stop herself.  He seemed to genuinely ponder the question, stroking her hair as he worked it through.

“We... are not going to tell Dean Sandow about this.” Alex laughed softly, the movement jostling both their bodies. “And tomorrow, I’m taking you to the armory.”

Her heart fluttered like a moth’s wing. “Okay.”

“The rest, I think, we can more or less play by ear.”

Such sincerity — the truth was, she liked it about him, even when it drove her crazy. He had a way of saying things so you couldn’t help but believe them. She wondered idly if Anderson Cooper really was five foot four.

Then she wondered: how _were_ they going to do this? Her dysfunctional ass could barely maintain a relationship with a drug dealer. She was laughably out of her league here. And if things went south with her and Darlington, what would it mean for Lethe House?

But the flash of panic faded as he pulled her closer, breath warm, eyelids heavy. Alex felt sleep wash over her as he pressed a lingering kiss to her jaw, then to the corner of her mouth.

“Let’s rest,” he murmured into her skin. “I can afford to skip my run today.”

_Gym rat asshole_. “Running is stupid,” she muttered, and turned over.

But she still let him curl against her, fitting their bodies together like lock and key. As his breathing grew soft and even, so did her own, until the room was nothing but a haze of golden light and Alex could no longer tell the difference between waking and dreams.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> There you have it, the Manuscript morning-after as reimagined by yours truly! If that scratched your Darlingstern itch, thanks so much & please leave kudos if you liked!! Seriously, it means a lot in such a small fandom 💖
> 
> And if you're intrigued to see what might happen next, read on! Next up is Darlington's POV, if you're into that beautiful mess — I know I am.


	3. Small Thrills

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _A faint blush crawled up his neck as he remembered. Had that really been him? He’d never said such things to a woman before, never allowed desire to corrupt him in that way. Moreover, he’d never liked the idea of being stripped bare, the innermost secrets of his heart laid out like rough cuts of meat._
> 
> _But Alex had coaxed them out of him. Maybe he'd wanted her to._
> 
> In which Darlington ruminates on the mortifying ordeal of being known, and he and Alex return to Il Bastone.

By the time Darlington woke in the early afternoon, Alex was gone. He couldn’t believe he hadn’t sensed her leaving, but he also knew that Alex Stern could be plenty stealthy when she wanted to — plus, he’d fallen into a near-comatose slumber after their morning activities.

A faint blush crawled up his neck as he remembered. Had that really been him? He’d never said such things to a woman before, never allowed desire to corrupt him in that way. Moreover, he’d never liked the idea of being stripped bare, the innermost secrets of his heart laid out like rough cuts of meat.

But Alex had coaxed them out of him. Maybe he’d wanted her to. That morning, she’d somehow seemed to know exactly what he craved from her, from the rare glimpse into her past life to the way she writhed on top of him as she came. Just the memory of it was almost enough to make him hard again.

Darlington sat up suddenly. How could he be sure that really was her in his bed, and not some Manuscript-induced mirage? Paranoia swept through him, icing his veins. He thought he’d felt the drug leave him, but maybe that was part of its trickery.  Had he spent the morning jerking off, hallucinating vividly about his mentee? Was it all just one long Shakespearean tragedy of a wet dream?

His phone lit up on the nightstand and he seized it in a frenzy. Only an email from one of his professors — but below it was a text notification from about an hour before. Relief coursed through him at the sight of her message, typed in all lowercase as usual.

_sorry for the irish goodbye - soc midterm going to kill me if i don’t start studying now. don’t need your help either, but thanks for thinking of it. see you soon._

He had indeed instantly begun formulating a plan to help her study. It felt strangely nice to be so predictable, though not nearly as nice as the confirmation (in writing, even) that she’d actually been there that morning.

Darlington typed back: _Pretty sure apologizing for it defeats the whole purpose of the Irish goodbye._

Alex replied immediately: _you’re right. next time i’ll just never speak to you again._

He replied: _Just what you’ve always wanted._

_that and passing this midterm,_ she shot back, punctuating with a little devil emoji. _really gotta go. ttyl?_

He selected a thumbs-up emoji and hovered for a moment over the kissy-face. Ridiculous. _Good luck!_ he typed instead, hit send, and put his phone to sleep. His reflection grinned stupidly back at him in the black screen; he looked so happy, he almost didn’t recognize himself.

When was the last time he’d flirted with a girl over text? Maybe never, unless one counted his misguided early attempts with Michelle Alameddine. It had taken a month of, in retrospect, deeply unsubtle invitations for her to come eat with him in Davenport and work with him in Beinecke before she’d texted him: _Danny, you know I’m gay, right?_

He had not known, but it made sense. Besides the fireside poets, Michelle was always quoting Virginia Woolf, and he’d once seen her stare with great intensity at a strawberry blonde girl crossing the commons, then heave a world-weary sigh when she disappeared from sight. If he hadn’t been eighteen and still largely oblivious to what lay outside the sheltered walls of Black Elm, he would have pieced it together much more quickly.

After that text, he got better at deciphering context clues, and he and Michelle became thick as thieves — platonic thieves, of course. He’d presumed it would be the same with his own Dante, even wondered if gender and sexual orientation were factors in their selection, so as to minimize the potential for messy romantic entanglements.

From occasional comments she’d made, he suspected Alex might not be entirely straight either. But she definitely wasn’t gay.

His cock twitched again at the thought, and he groaned. He needed to get out of bed, otherwise today was going to be a lost cause.

He threw back the covers and stumbled into the bathroom, scrubbing at his eyes, which were still full of sand. Forget flirting over text — when was the last time he’d slept in this late? He honestly could not remember.

Normally he jolted awake around 7 a.m., bursting with frenetic energy that could only be channeled into a long, strenuous morning run. This had started happening toward the end of his freshman year, at the unfortunate nexus of Michelle’s impending departure and the anniversary of his grandfather’s death. Darlington had awoken one morning in late April, heart racing, in the grip of something cold and unassailable: the realization that he would soon be all alone. 

Not so solitary as when he’d had to keep the lights on at Black Elm, no. But he had so much more responsibility now, and the idea that he could fail — as he’d nearly done with the house — was nothing short of nightmarish. 

And it _would_ be him alone who would fail. Sandow and Dawes notwithstanding, with Michelle gone, he would be in charge of Lethe House. He would have to oversee every ritual, line every chalk circle, calibrate every move they made without a speck of error.  Or else people would die, and their bodies would be laid at his feet.

Darlington had worked himself into a panic and had never quite managed to calm down. The feeling had since evolved (devolved?) into a sort of general, existential anxiety, which flared every morning and which he was only able to handle through exercise — exercise that he, in turn, played off to others as a sincere quest to "better himself."

Running in particular kept the demons away. It pushed everything else out of his mind, leaving no room for unspeakable thoughts of failure, allowing him to still enjoy the vast majority of what he did at Lethe. Getting drunk also sometimes helped.

And apparently, so did athletic, filthy, early-morning sex with one Galaxy Stern.

“Good to know,” he mused to the happy stranger in the mirror. “Honestly? That’s just very good to know.”

***

Darlington showered, dressed, and spent the rest of the afternoon tending to the estate: composting pumpkins from the night before, raking leaves in the backyard, even greasing the hinges of the faded outdoor window shutters. He considered hauling out a few decade-old cans of paint to give them a touchup, but decided that might be a bridge too far in his quest for atonement.

Not that he had anything to atone for, but this was how Darlington felt after any sort of wild indulgence. It was the religious man in him; not so much _guilt_ , per se, as the sense that the world had been thrown slightly off-balance, that he’d been gifted a little too much, and now needed to rectify it by being industrious.

The trouble was that he couldn’t stop thinking about Alex. All afternoon, reminders of her stopped him in his tracks — the oil he used on the hinges recalled her hair, a cardinal flitting up to the trees was nearly the same ruby her lips had been at the party. She hadn’t quite managed to rub all the color off before coming to bed, and she’d looked obscene with that smeared-red mouth, even before she had taken off her clothes and climbed on top of him.

This was the sort of tangent his subconscious pursued a thousand times that afternoon, to his equal parts delight and dismay. At one point he had to prop himself up against the rake, his mind miles away — or more accurately, two stories up and slightly to the left — as he relived the moment he’d first entered her. She’d splayed before him just as he’d envisioned, a lotus flower in exquisite bloom.

So it was with a sense of two steps forward, one step back that Darlington re-entered the house in early evening. Industriousness had been achieved; the grounds of Black Elm were immaculate. His mind, unfortunately, was anything but.

_Food might help_ , he thought as he crossed the threshold. He hadn’t eaten in twenty-four hours, and suddenly he was starving — as if a spell had been cast, or perhaps lifted, when he walked through the door. He pulled a container of pasta from the fridge and dug into it cold, hoping it would settle him.

As he ate, his eyes slid to his phone lying face-down on the counter. He’d forced himself to leave it inside as he worked. Alex was busy studying, and besides, she wasn’t the type to text him sweet nothings all day.

This knowledge did not mitigate the crushing disappointment of turning his phone over to find zero notifications. Against his better judgment, he opened his messages to reread their brief conversation from earlier — and his heart jackhammered when he realized he’d accidentally left it open, and she had indeed texted him after all. The new message had appeared seamlessly, silently below the rest, and it was twelve characters long and impossibly thrilling:

_armory tmrw?_

He gritted the fork between his teeth and replied: _Yes. 10 am. I’ll bring the coffee._

***

The field trip wasn’t entirely erotically motivated. Darlington had actually been meaning to get to Il Bastone for a few days, but between schoolwork and his sexual spiral, he’d been a bit preoccupied. It was convenient that Alex had reminded him, because there was no way he would have remembered on his own.

He grabbed coffee and arrived a few minutes early to find her, uncharacteristically, already perched on the front steps. It was another unseasonably warm day and she was leaning back on her elbows, legs stretched out in front of her. She looked like a cat basking in the sun.

Taking her in, Darlington realized he'd lamely wondered whether she might dress up a bit more for him now, but she was wearing the same dark jeans and Henley as always — though he noted with satisfaction that she’d left the top button unbuttoned for once. Something else looked different about her too, but he couldn’t quite put his finger on what it was.

As he approached, Alex’s eyes slivered open against the sun. She offered him an enigmatic, close-mouthed smile. “Hey there.”

“Hey,” he replied, his voice nearly cracking. Now that he was close, he’d identified what else was different. As he handed her a latte, he couldn’t stop himself from blurting out: “Are you not wearing a bra?”

She took the drink and gave him a look halfway between perplexed and amused.  “My nipple’s been in your mouth, Darlington. Don’t go all repressed on me now.”

“I’m not. I mean, I like it — I mean,” he said, stammering, “you look very nice. As always.” Good Lord, mere seconds in her presence and he was already acting like a lunatic.

Alex smirked. “You look nice-as-always too. I thought you were bringing scones?” She set her drink to the side, as if about to lecture him, but instead clasped her hands behind her back to stretch. The motion pushed her chest toward him in a way that seemed extremely deliberate, and she looked up, smiling sunnily.  Darlington gulped in a breath. He would hold firm.

“I never said that.” He dropped down next to her in what he hoped was a convincing show of nonchalance, even as his pulse thrummed with proximity. “By all means, check your messages if you are unsure.”

Alex's brows shot up, accepting the dare. She pulled her phone from her pocket and unlocked it. He noticed, with another twinge of satisfaction, that their conversation was already open on her screen — he hadn't been the only one rereading.

A peal of laughter escaped him as he noticed something else. “Do you have me in your phone as ‘Darlington Arlington?’”

Color rose in her cheeks. He relished the victory. “I like having full names,” she said. “And I wasn’t about to put ‘Daniel’ for the first.”

“You can call me Daniel if you want,” he said, his voice just a shade too intense. So much for nonchalance.

She tittered. “If this is a ploy for you to start calling me Galaxy, it’s not going to work.”

“What about Alexandra?”

“Shut up, Darlington.”

“With pleasure.”

In one quick, impulsive movement, he brushed her hair aside and touched his lips to the soft skin behind her ear, then — even as he second-guessed himself — took it gently between his teeth. It paid off: they were sitting close, but he’d still managed to catch her off guard. She gave a lovely little gasp and swatted him away, her face an unconvincing mask of indignation.

“Not very gentlemanly!” _Very_ flushed now. She looked like a piece of candy.

“Oh, Stern.” He clicked his tongue. “Don’t go all repressed on me.”

She tried to purse her lips, but couldn't quite manage it. He took the opportunity to snake an arm around her waist and pull her closer, nosing into her hair in a manner he prayed was subtle. Verbena, lavender — a touch of mint, or something similarly invigorating.

“You creep. Are you smelling me?” she asked, still more affectionately than not.

“Yes,” he admitted. “You smell like a garden.”

She leaned against him, eliciting another small thrill. “I’ll allow it,” she said, “but only because I was wrong about the scones. This is my penance.”

“Surely it’s not so unpleasant as that.”

She closed her eyes again and breathed deeply. Perhaps she was inhaling him too. “It’s all right.”

They sat there for a minute or more, soaking up the rare New Haven sun.

“So.” Alex was the one to break the silence; he felt the hum in her throat as she spoke. “Should we go inside? I kinda don’t wanna see Dawes right now, to tell you the truth.”

“Dawes is away this weekend. It’s her sister’s birthday.”

“Wow, that’s convenient,” Alex mused. It took her a moment to catch up. “Oh, you asshole! You knew she’d be gone.”

He smiled into her hair. “I had an inkling. I was planning on coming by myself to do some research. It’s nice to have company, though.”

With some reluctance, he released her and stood, earning himself a head rush in the dizzying light. He drained the rest of his coffee to counteract it, then extended a hand to help Alex up. She grumbled as she rose and stepped into the shade of the porch — she'd clearly been enjoying the sun immensely.

“Do we have to go in? It's so nice out. Reminds me of home.”

Darlington pulled open the heavy door, the house seeming to take on his own eager anticipation. “Trust me, Stern — come in with me. I'll make it worth your while.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Readers, if you're out there, let me know! Also, if you want a taste of demon Darlington & haven't yet read [crossing mid-ocean for the flood](https://archiveofourown.org/works/25338496/chapters/61436413), go do so immediately. To better yourself, as our boy would say.


	4. Signal Fires

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _"I thought you wanted to stay outside?” he prodded._
> 
> _A smile danced on her lips. “I guess I changed my mind.”_
> 
> _“So capricious, Stern.”_
> 
> _“So indecent, Darlington. What are we going to do about that?”_
> 
> Emotions run high in the parlor at Il Bastone; Alex's foot fetish is finally addressed.

The moment the door closed, Alex whirled on him, eyes ablaze as she pushed him against its dark oak. His knees nearly buckled as her mouth attached itself just above his clavicle, sucking hard enough to leave a bruise.

Darlington sighed and let his eyes flutter shut, moving his hands to the small of her back, wanting to touch the soft, rare skin there. But just as he dipped under the hem of her shirt, she pulled away.

He opened his eyes: she looked breathless and triumphant, as if she’d just beaten him in a race. She wiped her mouth and tapped the newly tender spot at the juncture of his neck and shoulder. “Now we’re even.”

Darlington laughed despite himself. “Why wait to retaliate? Trying to catch me unawares?”

“A couple of Grays were lurking by the gate,” she said, as if stating the obvious. “I was trying not to tempt them. Why do you think I pushed you away before?”

“I thought you were just being coy.” She made a face, and he laughed again. “An obvious miscalculation, in retrospect. I also thought you wanted to stay outside?” he prodded.

A smile danced on her lips. “I guess I changed my mind.”

“So capricious, Stern.”

“So indecent, Darlington.” She drew closer again and let her hand drift down to his erection. “What are we going to do about that?”

His mouth was dry. “Drastic intervention.”

She smirked and pulled back her hand, running it lazily through her hair. She had all the power and she knew it, and God, he loved it on her. “You wish.” Then, quick as a reflex, she kicked off her shoes and turned on her heel, beckoning for him to follow. “First I want to hear about the alleged _research_ you were going to do today.”

Darlington followed her to the sagging sofa where Dawes normally set up shop. It was strange not to see her there — stranger still when Alex flopped down in her place, like they’d switched lives for the day. Only Dawes would never give him a hickey against the door of Il Bastone. At least he didn’t think she would.

Alex patted the cushion next to her. “Come here,” she said, and his heart leapt as he remembered saying the same thing to her in his bed.

He settled, close enough that their thighs touched. He stretched his arms across the back of the sofa and pried off his shoes to prop his feet on the coffee table. Darlington didn't spend much time in the parlor, but it was remarkably pleasant with the light trickling through the stained-glass windows, and surprisingly comfortable even on the old couch.

Alex rested her head sweetly, unexpectedly, on his shoulder, and said something he didn't catch. The scent of her hair was overwhelming. She must have showered just before coming over.

“What?” he said.

“I said, is it something to do with Scroll and Key?” she asked.

“Is what something to do with Scroll and Key?”

“Your research. Quit sniffing me and pay attention.” She raised her head and moved from him slightly, _tsk_ ing as she went.

“Why would I be looking into Scroll and Key?” He was annoyed with himself; he wanted to pull her back.

“Because they couldn’t open that portal the other day. Their magic isn’t usually that weak, is it?”

“No,” Darlington had to admit. “That was unusual for them. The last time they failed to deliver on a ritual was my freshman year, actually.”

He remembered because it had been his own first society encounter, with Michelle, whom he hadn’t yet realized was gay. When she’d gently mocked them later in the privacy of Il Bastone ( _“poor new delegates can’t even manage a state-lines portal to New York”_ ), he’d piled on just a little too eagerly ( _“Cole Porter is rolling in his grave as we speak”_ ), hoping to impress her. He felt a pang of guilt about it even now.

“But it’s nothing to do with the Locksmiths. I checked them out weeks ago, after they canceled their first rite of the year, and nothing noteworthy came up. Right now I’m trying to find out… something else.” He didn’t especially want to tell Alex about Daisy and Paoletta. For one thing, he wasn’t sure if the cases were connected at all. And for another, he didn’t want to callously mention them to the girl who’d escaped death by the skin of her teeth — and whose closest friends hadn’t quite had the skin to spare.

“Hmm. Evasive.” Alex shifted to lean against the arm of the couch, curling her body as if about to nap. Her eyes, however, remained alert, and she regarded him with suspicion, scrunched face framed by that curtain of oil-black hair. “Not like you. Normally you won’t quit blabbering.”

He shrugged, trying to stay casual, and pulled her feet into his lap. Alex's brow smoothed and she inhaled sharply, but didn’t say anything. The dark wells of her eyes bore into him, gorgeous and intimidating, as he pulled off a ratty ankle sock and began massaging her right foot. The bones were as sharp as the ones in her wrist and her toes were painted black. They looked like little chips of obsidian.

“You think that’s going to distract me?” Her voice was steady, if a note higher than usual. “Got news for you, buddy. I’m a lot more interested in whatever you’re not telling me than in catering to your foot fetish right now.”

He couldn’t help but smile. “You’re one to talk.”

“ _Excuse_ me?”

“Don’t pretend like you weren’t staring at _my_ feet the other night.”

She played dumb. “What, after the party?”

“No, the Thursday before, after Scroll and Key. When it was raining and we went back to Black Elm to warm up.”

Alex bit her lip and said nothing, but the creeping blush on her neck betrayed her. Another small victory. She hadn’t pulled her feet away yet, either, so he plucked off her other sock and started on the left one. Her skin was soft all over, but for the heels — he blamed it on subpar footwear. Maybe Aunt Eileen, or whatever they were calling his bank account these days, could sponsor a new pair of boots.

“If I’d known you wanted to sleep with me then,” he continued, digging his thumb into the delicate arch of her foot, not quite daring to meet her gaze, “I would have been terrified. I would’ve thought, what is she going to do to my poor innocent feet?”

“I did _not_ want to sleep with you then!”

“Oh?” He kept his eyes on her darkly painted toes. “So when did the miraculous shift occur?”

“I don’t know, Darlington. Maybe when I woke up to you practically impaling me, or when you tried to eat me out in front of a bunch of strangers? Hard for a lady to resist those charms.”

He cringed and looked back at her, anxiety flaring — but she was smiling, wrapping a shiny strand of hair around her finger. He had far too much in common with that piece of hair.

“I really am sorry about all that, Stern.”

She waved her other hand airily. “Water under the bridge. But I guess, if I'm being honest,” she said, and now she sounded as if she were steeling herself for something, “maybe I did want... you… before. It’s hard to say when it started.” She looked down at her lap, embarrassed by even this most minor of confessions.

He grinned at her words, and at another passing thought. “I hope it wasn’t when I introduced myself as your cousin.”

Alex laughed, an unexpectedly full-bodied sound that echoed through the room. “Forbidden love _is_ the hottest kind.”

“What’s worse, a cousin fetish or a foot fetish?”

“Both. They’re both worse.”

“Very unfortunate that you can't escape from either.”

“I'm not the one who randomly grabbed a girl's feet just now,” she teased, wiggling her toes for emphasis. “And hey, speaking of escape, don’t think I’ve forgotten about your little mystery project.” She pulled her feet away abruptly, tucking them under her legs. “See, now I’m going to punish you until you tell me. Because _you're_ the one with the damn foot fetish.”

 _Like a dog with a bone._ Darlington rolled his eyes. Maybe he could give her a half-truth to get her off his back, just for now. He’d tell her more later — if there was even any more to tell. He sat back against the other arm of the couch, settling in.

“I’m looking into the Bridegroom case,” he offered. “I have reason to believe it wasn’t a murder-suicide after all.”

Alex frowned. “Really? Seems pretty open-and-shut to me. Plus don’t you hate popular cases like that?”

“Normally, yes. But this one… there’s just something off about it. By all accounts, though there aren’t many, Ber— the Bridegroom was deeply devoted to his fiancée.” He’d stopped himself from saying their names just in time, realizing it could cause trouble for her. “It wasn’t just that he needed her money, or wanted to marry respectably. He seemed to genuinely love her.”

A shadow passed over Alex’s face. “Loving someone isn’t the same as not hurting them.”

“Of course,” he said quickly. It was a truth he knew himself, though surely not in the same way she did. Shame prickled through him at the thought of what she must have endured, what Lethe had allowed; still, he pressed on. “But there’s physical evidence as well. For example, why shoot yourself in the chest, rather than the head, if you really wanted to die?”

Though he’d been reluctant to say anything, now he was intrigued to hear her thoughts, grateful to finally have a sounding board for his theories. But Alex just shrugged and stared past him into middle distance. “Maybe they didn’t have a great understanding of anatomy back then. Still thinking in terms of humors or whatever.”

Darlington chuckled, and was about to bring up more evidence — but then she spoke again, a rough, bitter edge to her voice.

“Why are you so desperate to believe he didn’t do it? Don’t you know men don't _need_ a reason to pull shit like this?”

He looked and was startled to see that her eyes were bright with anger. Instinctively, he moved to comfort her, settling behind her on the wide couch, resting his head next to hers. He angled his body toward her and curled an arm around her waist, pulling her close, yearning to help. She just shook her head and pressed her hands to her face.

“Sorry,” she said tightly, voice muffled beneath her palms. “Stupid of me. I asked you about it."

“It’s not stupid. Stern, look at me. I’m the one who should be sorry. I shouldn’t have said anything.” She lay stock still on her back, clutching her face, as if trying to literally hold herself together. He kept talking because he didn’t know what else to do. “I’ve barely looked into it anyway. I’m sorry, I honestly don’t know what I’m talking about.”

Slowly, she lowered her hands. There were half-moon nail marks on her forehead, but no tears lay on her cheeks. “Yes, you do. You always know what you’re talking about. That’s your whole thing.”

His small smile matched hers. “Sounds pretty aggravating. I should get a new thing. Maybe juggling."

“I think the old thing might actually be growing on me,” Alex murmured, and their faces were so close now, it barely took a movement for her to turn and press her lips against his.

Darlington groaned as he kissed her back, crushing their bodies together, unable to curb the urgency coursing through him. She made a small, satisfied noise and responded in kind, twining her arms around his neck, letting her lips part. He tasted her hungrily, floral scent and heady flavor mixing together, and finally slid his hands up her shirt as he'd wanted to do since they walked through the door.

"Mmm," she hummed as he moved his lips to her throat. "God, it's nice to make out someplace warded."

He glanced up at her. "Black Elm is warded. For the most part."

"There's still a buzz," she said, eyes closed in bliss. "I mean, obviously no one interrupted us yesterday. But here it's completely silent."

He felt like she'd issued him a challenge. "Next time, we'll ward my room before we... do anything."

She laughed. "So eager to please. Have I mentioned I like that about you?"

"You have not, but you should. I thrive on positive reinforcement."

Alex sat up suddenly, pushing him back, and pulled her shirt over her head in one fluid motion. He was overcome by the memory of her doing the same two months ago ( _could it really only have been that long?_ ). But now was so much better, because he could touch her freely — and because, as he was now vividly reminded, this time she was wearing nothing underneath.

"How's this for positive reinforcement?" he heard her say softly.

"You forgot the signal fires." His voice was too intense again.

"Thought it might be more effective that way."

Darlington cleared his throat, trying to sound normal. "You were right." He quickly unbuttoned his own shirt and cast it aside, then pulled her on top of him, reveling in the feeling of skin against skin. Her breath caught as he buried his face in her neck and kissed down to her bare breasts, splaying his hands across her back, wishing he could somehow touch more of her.

"Darlington," she whispered. "Should we — _ah!_ Jesus. Shouldn't we go upstairs?" Taking another risk, he'd flicked his tongue across the sensitive nub of her right nipple, and she was gripping his hair as if holding on for dear life. It might have hurt if it had been anyone else, or if it could remotely contend with the erection throbbing in his jeans.

"We should," he murmured, and with her in his arms, he simply lifted both of them, his mouth never leaving her skin. He wondered if she might drop away in protest — something about how she could manage a single flight of stairs for herself, thank you very much — but she only sighed indulgently, fingers still in his hair, and wrapped her legs around him like a snake crushing its prey.

"Take me," Alex breathed, and he moved toward the staircase with ardent purpose, a courier serving his queen.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The working title for this chapter was “Sepia-Toned Pervert”, but I thought I’d leave Alex with a shred of dignity. Anyway, hope this was a good mix of fluff, banter, and actually a little bit of plot! (Needless to say, the next chapter will be quite plotless.)  
> 


	5. Sacrilege

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _Once again, he felt rather than saw her smile. "Flattery will get you everywhere, Darlington. Especially into bed."_
> 
> _"Not to belabor the point, Stern, but I already had you in bed. I'm complimenting you now because you deserve it."_
> 
> Alex and Darlington find themselves alone in the Dante room at last.

As soon as Darlington reached the landing at the top of the stairs, he realized he'd been bluffing. Secluded though the armory was, it was no place to make love to a woman — certainly no place _he_ could make love to a woman. Alex was right that he was no longer acting very gentlemanly, but for God’s sake, he had to draw the line somewhere.

Her legs were still wrapped around him, hands in his hair, that luscious mouth on his neck. Yet as soon as she felt him hesitate, she reared back, hair spilling over her breasts like a siren — though she looked less Undine now, he marveled, more Venus by way of Titian.

Venus smirked at him with kiss-swollen lips and bobbed her head toward the armory. “We doing this?”

“No,” he told her, and for a moment she looked crestfallen, betrayed. Then he pushed them both into the paneling beside the stairs, covering her mouth entirely with his. He kissed her for a long, luxurious minute, breathing in her scent, savoring the curves of her body. Her lips parted again, and she gasped as he hitched her up on his torso and swept her hair aside to reach her ear.

“There are two perfectly good beds in this house,” he murmured, “and I see no reason to waste them.”

She breathed a laugh into his own ear. “What, we’re not gonna have sex in the crucible?”

_An absolutely irredeemable heathen._ “Not unless you want our skin to melt together.”

A smile curved her lips, so close that he felt it more than saw it. “Sexy.”

“Hardly.” He moved his mouth to just below her ear, kissing quickly from there to her throat. Her eyes fluttered shut as he pulled them both from the shadows of the landing and continued down the hall. She didn’t reopen them until he was nudging open the door to the Dante room, sunlight streaming through the blue-and-violet stained glass, the bed’s dark canopy parted to reveal blue satin sheets within.

He crossed to the bed and laid her down so reverently, it felt borderline sacrilegious when her thighs only gripped him tighter, refusing to let go. Matching her gaze, Darlington gently pried one leg from his waist, then the other, and turned to make haste of the shutters around the stained glass. They hadn’t moved upstairs just to continue the exhibitionism; still, he took care not to darken the room completely. She’d blurred before him in a haze of lust the first time around. Now that he was getting this chance again, he wanted to see everything.

Alex made a contented sound as he climbed back on top of her, both of them now bathed in soft, cool-colored light. “That was very _The Notebook_ of you,” she murmured, “carrying me up the stairs like that. Too bad I don’t have any stockings for you to sensually pull off... though I guess you kinda did that before.”

She'd lost him. “What in the world are you talking about?”

_"The Notebook."_ When his face showed no recognition, her mouth formed a small _o_ of surprise. "With Rachel McAdams. Period film, rom-dram sensation of the mid-2000s. You've really never seen it?"

"I'm surprised _you_ have, Stern. Doesn't sound like your type of cinema."

"I watched it with my friend Meagan when we were like, twelve. Don't judge me."

"Too late." He slid his hands down to her sides, hooking his fingers into her belt loops. "Seeing as you're bereft of stockings, will this suffice?"

Her eyes widened and she nodded. He unbuttoned and unzipped her jeans, then moved to kneel before her — _more sacrilege,_ he couldn't help but think — and carefully peeled them down her legs. Her skin was hot, and he heard her sigh with relief at the new coolness of the sheets. Darlington quickly stepped out of his own jeans, eager to feel what she was feeling, and lay back down beside her.

In the blue-tinted shadows, Alex's smudged half-tattoos took on an eerie, enchanting quality. He traced the faded wheel at the crook of her arm, remembering the first time he'd seen it, how touching her had felt like a prelude.

His fingers followed the lines of her tattoos up to her clavicle. Alex's eyes were trained on him, but she didn't touch him back. In fact, she seemed to be full of coiled energy, waiting for something.

As if she could tell he'd noticed, she ran her tongue along her lower teeth and took a fortifying breath. "I just don't want to rush it this time. Last time, I was so, like, desperate for you. It was embarrassing."

He had to laugh at that. " _You,_ desperate and embarrassing? I'm the one who nearly... lost control the second we started." He felt heat rise in his cheeks, both at the memory and his own clumsy euphemism, and was grateful she probably couldn't tell he was blushing.

Or maybe she could, because now she raised a hand to his face, skimming a thumb over his cheekbone. Her eyes were bottomless pools of ink. Darlington wouldn't mind drowning in them.

"You make _me_ feel out of control," she was saying now, her voice taking on the tenor of a church confession. "Honestly, this whole place does. I feel like I'm on the brink of losing it every day."

"But you don't." He pulled her closer, fitting his hand to the ridges of her spine, and she relaxed the smallest fraction into his touch. "In fact, you keep it together remarkably well." As he said it, he realized it was true. Alex Stern wasn't the Dante he'd anticipated, but she exceeded his expectations more with each passing day. Hadn't she observed every ritual since Aurelian with the calm stoicism of a judge? Hadn't she been the one to save them from Manuscript that night, when he was so wasted on her he could barely stand?

Once again, he felt rather than saw her smile. "Flattery will get you everywhere, Darlington. Especially into bed."

"Not to belabor the point, Stern, but I already had you in bed. I'm complimenting you now because you deserve it."

"God, I lo— uh, thank you for saying that."

He didn't dare ask what she'd meant to say, not when the same absurd sentiment was so close to slipping from his own mouth. "You're entirely welcome," were the three words he spoke instead. And then, terrified of what he might reveal if left unoccupied, he bent his lips to her collarbone, moved easily between her breasts. Though he was going slowly, she couldn't help but hold him now. Her hands gripped his shoulders as he inhaled the scent of her skin, then ventured further down.

"Is this okay?" he murmured, taking care not to rush.

"Please," was all she said as he pressed a kiss to her navel, then the jut of her right hipbone, then her inner thigh. "Please."

"Please what?" he breathed between her legs, bolder now. Alex shivered.

"More," she said, her voice nearly a rasp, and that was plenty good enough for him. 

He pushed aside her panties and licked her hard, and she swore just as she had the first time, the same intonation, a glorious déjà vu. She tasted like honey and earth. Needing to reach more of her, he tore the fabric from her legs, accidentally ripping into the delicate lace as he pulled them down. The Alex before him moaned, but her past voice echoed a warning in his head: _Get your shit together, Darlington._

He forced himself to take a deep breath. She wasn't going anywhere.

Bracing himself for the sensation, he moved in again, keeping himself slow and measured. He licked her carefully, using only the very tip of his tongue, just barely grazing her clit. And he used his lips more than before, kissing around her folds, occasionally ducking to plant a kiss or gentle bite on either side of her thighs. He wasn't teasing her, exactly — he just wanted to build, gradually, to something magnificent.

Still, Alex's breathing quickened with every movement, and soon she was arching deep into his mouth. His eyes flicked up. Even in the dim light, he could see the flush spreading over her chest and neck, the way she'd knotted her hands through her own hair, returning to a vain attempt at self-discipline. Her eyes were screwed shut, but she opened them when he laid his hands on her hips, gently pushing her back to meet the bed. At this, she looked straight at him and offered an only-slightly sheepish smile, as though she couldn't quite bring herself to be embarrassed.

"See what I mean?" Her voice was ragged. "Desperate."

"I don't mind," Darlington murmured, keeping his voice low, trying not to show his own rough edges. A plan was forming in his admittedly sex-impaired mind, and if he had the slightest chance of pulling it off, he'd need to maintain at least an illusion of control.

"Stern." She blinked and focused on him again. _Dark ink, bottomless pools._ He forced himself to articulate. "Last time we were together, I said things to you that I... wouldn't normally say."

He thought he saw the whites of her eyes as they rolled up into her skull. "I hope you're not about to apologize for swearing during sex."

"Certainly not. It met my qualifications."

"What qualifications?"

"Sparingly used, wholeheartedly meant."

"Ah, of course." Now he thought he saw the flash of a smile, but again, he couldn't be sure. Still, he couldn't help but hope — maybe she'd be more amenable to his proposition. He wouldn't push her, but God, could he hope.

"But I think in return," he started, hardly believing he was about to say this to Galaxy Stern, the empress of apathy herself (though he didn't really believe that, did he? Otherwise he wouldn't be trying). "In return, you should tell me how you feel. How you feel about me," he amended.

Now her eyes narrowed, he was sure of it. "What do you mean?"

And here was his opportunity to recant, but still Darlington pressed on, knowing what he desired from her. "Tell me how you felt... when you first knew you wanted me. What you've thought, being close to me all this time. Because I know I've thought about you," he rushed out. "Truly, nothing explicit. It's just that you didn't really elaborate before, regarding the circumstances. And I should think a man would like to know."

The more he rambled on, talking around the subject like a goddamn repressed Austen character, the more he doubted he could convince her. He was about to give up when her mouth opened and the words spilled forth, an unexpected, rich and brilliant concierto.

"I wanted you the day I met you," she whispered, her voice barely audible, but still he moved his mouth back down in reward. "I thought — _oh!_ _"_ she exclaimed, as he swirled his tongue against her. "Jesus. I thought," she continued shakily, "you were one of the most beautiful people I had ever seen. I just never figured" — now her voice went soft again — "that you could find... anything of value, in me."

"What are you talking about?" he murmured between her legs. Alex shivered slightly. "You're incredibly special. Far more valuable than me, in every empirical sense."

"Well, we don't really live in an empirical world. And even if we did, I don't think that would be true."

Darlington said nothing in response; he was only determined to prove her wrong. He licked her longer, more intensely, brushing against her entrance with his fingers, though he wouldn't submit just yet. He ached to hear more from her, and she obliged him, as if in a dream.

"Every time I stand next to you... I think about you touching me," he heard her say quietly. "When you call me up on a Thursday, I think: _Jesus_ , Darlington. Instead of surveying magical bullshit, why don't we just spend the next several hours in bed?"

 _Very good,_ he thought, almost mimicking the praise she'd given him before. As he sped up, he heard the urgency rise in her voice.

"Please, baby. Oh god.I can't believe I said that again." She sounded wild, uncontrolled, and he delighted in not being the only one. "Did you know I've never called anyone that before? Only you."

Finally, blissfully, he felt her fingers in his hair, and he moved his lips to center on her clit. "You're — _oh_. So perfect. Why do you want me? I don't... _mmm._ " Now he was flicking his tongue rapidly against her, and he'd slipped his fingers into her at the same time, up to the knuckle. 

"Little more," he murmured, and though he was muffled by her body, she understood precisely what he wanted.

"Darlington." Lord, she could get him with his name like that. "No one else has ever... cared about what I thought, how I felt about them. Or cared about what I can do. You are the only one. Only... oh, god, only you. Jesus _Christ._ " The ultimate sacrilege: a response to a third finger inside her, and to be completely honest, he could not have cared less about debasing religion. He could feel her getting closer, and this time she wasn't telling him to stop.

 _"Darlington."_ There it was again — she knew his weakness, he realized too late. He should have known better. Alex Stern was the type to always have an ace in the hole, an upper hand not yet played. They were both competitive, perhaps, but she'd gotten the better of him this time. No matter. Her victory would be his victory, too.

He shifted all his focus to that small, tender bundle of nerves at her apex, and stroked her so deeply that he felt he must be reaching someplace entirely new. He relished how her muscles contracted and expanded, how her breathing broke like waves, how her nipples had gone completely hard and her hairline was slick with sweat.

And he could barely resist touching himself when, as he knew would happen, a well-executed pattern of his tongue combined with an exceptionally deep thrust of his fingers sent her over the edge, cursing and shaking and sweating — _not unlike the day we met,_ his newly obscenity-prone mind couldn't help but think, as she convulsed and curled around him.

When Alex finally stilled, it was like she'd come back into her body after a long, halcyon holiday. She raised herself up on her elbows, catching her breath at last, and smiled dreamily at him.

"Hey, Darlington." There was a teasing edge to her voice. She may have revealed more of herself, but she'd still had him right where she wanted him, and they both knew it.

"Hey, Stern." He wiped his mouth with the back of his hand; she watched him with supreme satisfaction. "How are you feeling?"

She laughed the same ebullient laugh from the lounge, the one that bounced around the room like music. "As if you don't know. Fishing for compliments, as always."

He smiled and slid back up beside her on the bed. She lowered a hand, snapping the waistband of his boxers, and he shuddered, almost unbearably hard.

"Poor baby," she murmured. "Good thing I believe in reciprocity."

Before Darlington had time to process her meaning, she had slipped to her knees and was palming him through the fabric. And then he must have died and gone to goddamn heaven, because her mouth was touching the tip of his cock, and his head was falling back against the sheets and he was yielding to her: whatever she was willing to give him, whatever she could possibly find worthy enough to take.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hope you guys enjoyed Alex getting the sexual tables turned on her! And don't worry, Darlington will get his very soon... though it might be from Alex's POV, as I've been in his head for a bit too long. (Insert pun about getting head, etc. etc.)


	6. A Little Leniency

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _Though she knew she was in control, Alex couldn't help feeling flustered. Was it because his vulnerability reminded her of her own, her desperate truths on full display mere minutes ago? Or was it the added pressure of knowing he'd never had "this" particular experience, and that she'd better make the first time goddamn unforgettable?_
> 
> _She decided to take the latter explanation and run with it. Fortunately, she thrived under pressure._
> 
> Alex's turn to get ahead (pun fully intended).

Alex Stern did not consider herself an expert in many arenas, but if there was one thing she knew she was good at, it was blow jobs.

Not that she went around bragging about it — on the contrary, it was the sort of thing she honestly forgot about herself until the situation arose. She hadn't ever mentioned it to Mercy or Lauren, even over the course of a lengthy, vodka-fueled game of Truth or Dare one night when they'd given up on any decent parties and succumbed to adolescent regression.

And she certainly wouldn't think of mentioning it to Darlington. Entertaining as it was to imagine his response, she'd never been willing to risk his opinion of her dipping into total disdain. Even an offhand, jokey remark, she'd found, was enough to shift their dynamic, and that was something neither of them had wanted to chance.

Of course, that was before he'd sworn as he fucked her and she'd trembled into orgasm around various parts of his body. So there you had it: dynamic shifted. Where could you go from there? _Straight to hell, I guess,_ Alex mused as she descended on the smooth satin sheets, preparing to give her mentor the best head of his life.

It probably wasn't going to take much. Darlington was already straining against his boxers, looking down at her like she was a miracle. Kneeling between his legs, Alex cupped his erection through the fabric and he bit that beautiful bottom lip — a lip much too full to justify its presence on any white boy's mouth. She lowered her own mouth to touch him, still in his boxers, and he threw back his head with a gasp. Jesus, how was he going to react when she actually started?

An ungenerous — or maybe very generous — thought came to her, and it bubbled up in her throat before she could stop it. "Have you ever done this before?"

He raised his head only slightly, as if reluctant to engage in any sort of delay. She smirked inwardly. Gentleman, schmentleman: they were all the same once you got them into a compromising position.

"What do you mean?" he asked faintly. Alex held back an impatient noise.

"Like, _this_. Like, sex. Have you ever... slept with somebody before? Have you ever had someone, you know, go down on you?"

Darlington blinked slowly, as if she were speaking one of the few languages he didn't understand. "You're asking me _now_ if I'm a virgin?"

Despite the fact that he was at her mercy, Alex felt herself flush. "Well, yeah. Better late than never, right?"

He laughed a little. "Fair enough. I'm not. Or, to clarify," he hastened, "I wasn't, even before yesterday morning."

She felt a flash of intense, irrational jealousy. "Oh, okay. That's cool. I mean, neither was I, obviously." _Who was she? How many? Were they as good as me?_ The questions burned at the tip of her tongue — but she'd be infuriated if Darlington asked her the same, so she only pressed her lips into a thin line and took a deep breath, then another. He watched her carefully, something like worry edging into his eyes.

"Stern," he began.

 _"What?"_ she snapped.

"For what it's worth, I..." He hesitated. "I've never done _this_ before." And now he gestured broadly at the both of them, his body supine on the teal sheets, her naked self crouching there, hovering over him.

Again, though she knew she was in control, Alex couldn't help feeling flustered. Was it because his vulnerability reminded her of her own, her desperate truths on full display mere minutes ago? Or was it the added pressure of knowing he'd never had "this" particular experience, and that she'd better make the first time goddamn unforgettable?

She decided to take the latter explanation and run with it. Fortunately, she thrived under pressure.

Slowly, deliberately, she lowered herself once more, shimmying back on the bed, bracing her hands on either side of Darlington's hips. Her ass was in the air, black hair falling over the curves of her breasts. She knew she looked good; it was all part of the routine, the performance, creating an image that men would latch onto.

But though she'd just slotted him into the everyman category, Alex had to admit that Darlington was different. Her body was twisting into real-life porn before his very eyes, and they still didn't stray from her face. _He wants to make sure I'm okay,_ she realized. _He wouldn't keep going if I wasn't._

As it turned out, this constituted the passing of a test she hadn't even known she was administering. The reward was bare skin. She pulled his boxers down in one swift motion. He sprang free, and she drew in a sharp little breath.

It really did seem indecent, or unjust rather, for him to be so sizable. With every other privilege at his disposal, what did Darlington need a huge dick for? _Maybe for the less privileged to enjoy,_ her mind supplied. She was tempted to climb astride now, give a repeat performance of yesterday — but no, that would be selfish. She’d already had hers (god, had she ever). It was his turn now, his turn alone.

 _Okay,_ she thought, a shiver of anticipation running through her. _Here we go._

Alex had learned the eye contact trick from Minki at Club Joy, who really was chock full of knowledge, and not just about how to get someone taller than you into a chokehold. The trick went like this: look straight at a guy as you peel off your clothes and he'll finish faster, tip you more, and get the fuck out immediately.

But it was only now, as she maintained unbroken eye contact with Darlington, that she realized why it was so effective. And while its intimacy could easily be faked in a dark, smoky strip club, if someone was _actually_ looking at you, they could tell the difference. Darlington was actually looking at her; as such, when she finally placed her mouth to the tip of his erection, she saw his eyes widen with recognition, and he hissed almost as if he were in pain.

This didn't deter her from running her tongue along his length, from base to tip, undeniably thorough, yet torturously slow. He was propped up on his elbows looking at her, but now one hand slid to his face, covering one sharp cheekbone and most of his unnecessarily full lips.

"You're killing me, Stern," he whispered through splayed fingers.

"That's the goal," she whispered back, then — believing this to be sufficient warning — flexed her jaw and took him almost entirely into her mouth.

"Fucking _hell!"_ The words seemed to tear from somewhere deep inside of him. Alex raised an eyebrow, languidly tonguing the underside of his cock. She'd expected a strong reaction, but not an unprecedented Darlington double-swear.

"Breaking so soon?" she tried to say, but it came out muffled, and he groaned.

"God. Don't do that."

"Do what?" she mouthed around him, then quickly closed her lips for more suction. She felt him shudder.

" _Alex._ A little leniency, please."

A thrill passed through her at the sound of her first name — she knew he used it only when he couldn't control himself. Again, she hadn't realized she'd been testing him, but the combination of begging and profanity apparently meant he'd passed with flying colors.

The reward for this was greater than before. She began bobbing steadily up and down, using her right hand to grip the base, not quite ready to take him in all the way. He was big, to be sure, but she'd had plenty of practice. She just didn't want to play her best card right off the bat.

And, truth be told, she was enjoying taking her time. Alex Stern may have mastered blow jobs at the age of fifteen, but it had been years since she'd actually cared for the person on the receiving end — and god, Darlington in the throes was something to relish. He'd given up trying to watch her and had thrown his head back once more, looking striking against the bed: pale skin, lean muscles, that tousled mop of dark hair. He had clenched the sheets in his fingers and, when Alex dared to look, she saw that his toes were literally curling into the mattress.

 _So fucking gorgeous._ Again came the urge to climb back on top and ride him furiously, until they both crested and crashed on the rocks together.

Instead, she pulled back slightly and swirled her tongue, surveying him carefully. Though most of his body truly was marble-statue pale, this part of him was swollen and pink, matching his lips perfectly. It was a dangerous revelation. How was she going to watch him speak ever again without thinking of this?

As if he could read her thoughts, Darlington now managed to string together his most eloquent sentence in awhile: "By all means, don't hold back on my account." His voice was uneven, choked by desire, and he still couldn't seem to seem to look directly at her.

She pulled her mouth off him with an obscene _pop._ "I try not to do anything on your account, Darlington," she said, even as she continued to stroke him softly. He moaned and rolled his body, rustling the sheets. So they both liked to hear their names in bed — though she'd daresay he enjoyed it a little more than her.

"I actually think," he panted, "that _this_ is very much on my account."

"Wrong. I just like to show off."

Yet even as she said it, she realized the performance was loosening. Though his eyes were closed, if he'd opened them he would have seen her smiling back at him like an idiot, gently carding her thumb against the lower tip of his cock, where she knew he'd be most sensitive. There was a tenderness now, a care she wouldn't normally bestow upon anyone. She wasn't sure if she liked it.

But Darlington sure as hell did. Even with just her hand on him, he was still gripping the sheets, sucking in shallow breaths. Alex sped up and he responded deliciously to her touch. Soon enough, she was licking her lips, preparing for the grand finale.

Another trick she'd learned — not from Minki, but some nameless girl she'd met at some party — was that you could inhibit your gag reflex by pressing your thumb into the palm of your hand and clenching your fingers around it. She hadn't needed to use it in a long time, not since she was a teenager and had no gag suppression to speak of. But now was the time to pull out all the stops.

She lowered herself back down, closing her right thumb in her fist, using the other hand to brace herself against the bed. Darlington tensed at the lack of contact, then released a shaky sigh when her mouth found his cock again.

She kissed down to the base, ran her tongue up to the head; repeated the motion slowly, almost lazily. Now his breathing came faster, and Alex was about to suction her mouth to the tip when she realized that she still wanted something from him.

"Hey," she murmured. "Look at me."

He managed to prop himself up again, lust-glazed eyes shifting into focus. And now he was watching her hungrily — but as it turned out, it was no longer a performance at all.

Darlington wasn't just some mall rat lowlife, some skeez who'd seen her in a short skirt and thought he deserved her body, but didn't give a shit what went through her mind. He knew her better than probably anyone else alive — cared for her, respected her, even _envied_ her for what she could do.

She wanted to give him everything in return. For now, this would have to suffice.

Alex took a deep breath and slid her mouth down, quick and wet, taking him in completely. When he hit the back of her throat, he swore with renewed vigor. Her own body pulsed with the knowledge that he'd never felt this before, and she moved her tongue and throat gently around him, knowing it wouldn't be long.

"Oh, fuck," he gasped, sounding unhinged. "Alex, I'm going to —"

Her mouth formed the word _please,_ and though he couldn't have known what she was saying, it sent him cascading over the edge. He arched desperately into her and she welcomed it, hands on his thighs, pulling him in as deep as possible.

She made sure to swallow every bit of him before she reared back — licking her lips in an exaggerated fashion, returning to the safety of performance. It was wasted on Darlington, who was sprawled across the bed, sweaty and spent, an arm thrown over his closed eyes.

Alex let his breathing slow, allowed him to come back into his body a bit, before scooting up to him and tucking her own arm around his chest, a gesture that would have mortified her a mere forty-eight hours ago. He spoke first, as she knew he would.

"My god," he whispered. "Thank you. All this time, I had no idea what I was missing."

A laugh burst from her lips. "Seriously? That's almost verbatim from _The Notebook._ "

His brows shot up, amused. "How many times have you seen that movie, Stern?"

"I don't know. Weren't you twelve and horny once? How many times did you, like, jerk off to Shakespeare or whatever?"

He only laughed and pulled her closer. "Was that a Queen Mab reference?"

"No, just a you're-a-pretentious-dickhead reference. Sorry if it didn't come through."

"Forgiven."

His fingers etched circles into her back as he leaned in to kiss her, long and slow. Alex let her lips part, somewhat perversely, wanting him to taste himself on her tongue. Finally, Darlington pulled back and simply looked at her, like he couldn't believe she was still there.

She braced herself for an intimate confession. He must have realized what she'd almost said before, and though she obviously hadn't meant it, she knew he must be tempted to say it back — out of courtesy if nothing else. She already resented him for the strained diplomacy of it all, dreaded the complications it would bring.

But all Darlington said was: "Want to rest?"

The question caught her off guard. "What, now? What time is it?"

"Later than when we fell back asleep yesterday," he said sheepishly, and she had to laugh.

"Oh, Darlington. You ashamed of our afternoon delight?"

"Technically," he said in a serious voice, "it is still before midday."

" _Midday._ Just say noon like a normal person."

"It's before noon," he murmured, his tone sending a shiver up her spine, "and we've both already come. What else is there to do?"

"Language," she said, swatting at him in faux scandalization — but to be fair, he had a point. She just wasn't ready for this to end.

So in lieu of getting up, she wriggled to the headboard and pulled the covers over her body, suddenly feeling very exposed. She sank back against the downy pillows and let a sigh of satisfaction fall from her lips. She should really start sleeping here more often.

But for the time being, Alex didn't want to sleep. She fixed her eyes on Darlington's and he followed her lead, moving his own body under the covers, nestling close but not quite touching her. He only looked, eyes drinking in her face in a way that would leave anyone feeling self-conscious, grasping at conversation to fill the air.

"You eyes are so blue," she blurted out. "Did you get them from your mom or your dad?" She realized in the next instant that she'd never heard a word about Darlington's family, and wondered if he'd kept it to himself intentionally, if she was sticking her nose where it didn't belong.

But his face didn't look guarded, only contemplative. At last, he reached out to toy with a flyaway strand of her hair.

"If I tell you," he said, "will you tell me more about _your_ family?"

"Um." She hadn't expected that. "There's not much to say. What do you want to know?"

Those ocean eyes burned into hers, his hand now at her cheek. She felt herself warm beneath his touch, a cold-blooded creature in the sun.

"I want to know everything about you, Stern. And I've decided to suspend all the rest of my research until I find out."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Whew, this fic has spiraled slightly out of control, hasn't it? Hope anyone who's read this far has enjoyed! Next chapter will likely just be fluff & banter, so if anyone has requests I can fit in, send 'em my way 👇


	7. Twenty Questions

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _"Can you ask me a specific question? I don't know where to start."_
> 
> _She could see his brain working, a welcome distraction from the memories. "How many questions do I get?"_
> 
> In which Alex basically fixates on Darlington’s sex life, while he tries to divert her with real questions.

"The first thing you should know," Darlington began, "is that blue eyes are recessive."

He hesitated, the eyes in question narrowing slightly, sussing her out. "Which means," he continued, "the trait has to come from both sides. So I inherited them from both my parents, technically speaking."

Alex couldn't stop her own eyes from rolling. "I know what a recessive trait is, Darlington. You think I never made a Punnett square in bio class before?"

"As usual, you'll have to forgive my lack of familiarity —"

"— with the curriculum of the Los Angeles County School District, and my interest in same? Yeah, yeah."

He smirked. "If only you'd pay as close attention to my curriculum as you do to offhanded insults about your own."

"So you admit it was an insult." Alex felt a surge of genuine irritation, compounded by how much she wanted to be immune to anyone else's opinion of her education, her past. She was Ivy League now, wasn't she? That should be all that mattered.

"Don't take it personally," Darlington was saying. "Any public school southwest of Philadelphia may as well be a Denny's with a periodic table tacked up on the wall."

"How are you _such_ a snob?" she muttered, wrenching away from him to face the armoire, even as her body protested the distance. "You're like a caricature of a stuck-up east coaster. You are the Blair Waldorf of New Haven."

"The what?"

"Darlington," she said on a sigh, "we need to work on your pop culture references."

"I'm perfectly willing to let you educate me in return."

And now she felt the warm rush of his body following hers, giving in to her petulant demands. He looped an arm around her waist and pulled her against him, both of them still bare underneath the sheets. Almost unconsciously, she wriggled her ass and rolled her shoulders, trying to fit herself more closely to his contours. A satisfied sound came from low in his throat, and he nudged her hair aside, putting his lips to her neck.

"See," he said softly. His breath skimmed over her skin like flat stones on the water. "Compromise."

"Don't get ahead of yourself." But she didn't move a muscle, allowing him to trail slow kisses down to the upper knob of her spine. He came to a stop between her shoulder blades; she could feel his eyelashes fluttering against her back as he lay there, breathing her in.

"Mmm. You really do smell heavenly, Stern."

"Spoken like a true serial killer, Darlington."

"If I killed you," he mused, "would you come back to haunt me?"

"Jesus, what a fucking question." She paused. "Obviously I would."

He was quiet for a minute, his breathing deep and even. Alex wondered if he'd actually fallen asleep. She was already worrying about how to rise without waking him, trying to channel her smooth exit from the day before, when Darlington broke the silence — his voice solemn, almost sorrowful.

"I had wondered if my grandfather might. He... passed away a few years ago." He pressed his lips to her back as punctuation. "I even tried to brew an elixir to find him, did you know? That's how Lethe found me. Sandow showed up at the hospital with the same offer he extended to you."

"Wow. Shit." It had never occurred to her that their stories might be so similar, that Darlington hadn't forged his acceptance to Lethe on golden-boy manners and academics alone. "And did it work? Did you get to him? Your grandfather, I mean."

Darlington shook his head slowly. She felt the tendrils of his hair brush her skin. "No. I've seen a thousand other Grays since then, but never him." All at once, he sounded utterly defeated, crushed by the mere memory of failure.

Alex twisted to face him, pressed herself into his body, cupped that beautiful face in her hands. His eyes were far away. Cautiously, she kissed him, trying to bring him back. He reached up to touch her wrist like she was something delicate, ghosting a thumb over her veins.

"You want to hear about my family now?" she whispered.

He smiled — weakly, but it was there. "Please."

"Okay. Well, um... can you ask me a specific question? I don't know where to start."

She could see his brain working, a welcome distraction from the memories. "How many questions do I get?"

"How about we trade off? I won't ask anything else about your grandfather. Unless you want me to."

Darlington smiled, more genuinely this time. "Since when do you care about boundaries, Stern?"

"I'm trying to be _nice,"_ she said with a bit too much force, and he laughed.

"Your tone could use improvement." Now she glared at him full-on, irritation flooding her again like serotonin. "All right, all right. First question," he said lightly, "What's your mother like?"

Alex took a deep, calming breath and contemplated. "Shallow. Sweet. She flipped out when I told her I was going to Yale — in a good way. She always thought I had so much, like, potential. Always tried to do her best for me." She shrugged, a little self-conscious. "But it's not like she could have known what was going on. No one could."

 _Except for Lethe._ The words lay unspoken between them, and Alex immediately regretted her phrasing. Darlington's brow was furrowing again, and his hand, which had been idly stroking the small of her back, suddenly stilled. She plowed onward, trying to lighten the mood.

"Also, you know, she named me _Galaxy_. Why no one called CPS from the get-go, I'll never understand."

The furrow deepened and she cringed. Of course that only reminded him of the first real question he'd ever asked her, and the tragic, humiliating explanation that had followed. Why was she throwing herself this pity party? She needed a change of subject, stat.

"Okay, my turn." He opened his mouth to protest, and she clamped a hand over it. "You can ask follow-up questions later."

"You're impeding my research process," he said around her fingers.

"Too bad. I want to know..." Alex turned onto her back and stared up into the swell of the bed's dark canopy, trying to choose her words carefully, not to be distracted by Darlington's face. Though she was still curious about his grandfather — and his parents, whoever and wherever they were — that line of questioning seemed bound to end badly, with more daunting emotions and grave facial expressions.

She threw him a curveball instead. "Have you ever had sex in this bed before?"

He hit back with an easy chuckle. "I have not."

_"Really?"_

"Yes. Is that so hard to believe? Haven't you noticed that a certain graduate student is always hanging around?"

"Maybe that's who you were having sex with," Alex mumbled, her face heating. Now Darlington laughed without restraint, and she couldn't resist turning to see his face alight.

It didn't disappoint, but it came at a price. "If I didn't know you any better, I'd say you were jealous, Stern."

"Good thing you know me so well." She cut him a challenging look. "So... not Dawes."

"Not Dawes."

"Even though she's obviously in love with you."

He arched a brow. "Now there's a leap."

"Is it? She's always making you that fancy soup."

"Avgolemono does not a courtship comprise. Besides, I get the impression she's more interested in _you_."

Alex scoffed. "Yeah, right. Dawes has barely said two words to me — in fact, you witnessed our longest interaction on my first day here. I'm sure you'll agree that sparks did not fly."

"She asks about you when you're not around. _How is Alex doing? Does Alex need any extra help with her reading? Can I stock anything for her in the armory?"_

"Sounds like she's just worried I'm going to fuck up."

"She also asked if I happened to know _your_ favorite kind of soup. So if that's your benchmark for romance, there you go." Darlington looked triumphant, as if he'd actually scored a point in a debate — or maybe just because he liked to twist her words around on her. Either way, Alex had to admit she was surprised.

"Huh. Interesting. It's chicken tortilla, for the record."

"Chicken tortilla," he said softly. "I'll make sure to pass that along."

The tender note in his voice compelled her to move closer, pressing her chest into his side, hitching a leg over his under the covers. He made another low humming sound and twined a hand in her hair, holding her in place for a second, before slowly running his fingers through to the split ends. In that moment, she felt as tender toward him as she'd ever felt toward any other person.

"My turn now," he murmured. "What else did your grandmother used to say?"

"What do you mean, what else?"

 _"Quien no sabe de mar no sabe de mal,"_ he quoted. The words, and the accompanying memory of Aurelian, hit Alex like a punch to the gut.

"She wasn't some mystical Spanish witch," she snapped. She felt Darlington tense, the spell breaking. "She was just my grandma. All grandmas say stuff like that."

"I suppose. The fact remains," he went on carefully, "that her words, or whosever they were, allowed you to dispel Grays in a manner I hadn't thought possible. I'm curious to know what else she had on hand."

"Is this why you wanted to hear about my family?" Her voice was cold. "You think you can crack the genetic code for magic? You think seeing dead people is a goddamn recessive trait?"

"No! Alex, no. I wanted to hear about your family because I want to know more about _you_." On the last word, he caught her hand and raised it to his mouth, brushing his lips over her knuckles. Her own lips pursed, but she didn't untangle her body from his.

"Although... I wouldn't be surprised if your gift were indeed genetic." He didn't press further; perhaps he could tell she was working up to something.

"Yeah. Well," she said finally, "if it is, I probably got it from my dad."

He remained still and silent, a man in the presence of a wild animal, trying not to spook it.

"I just can't see my grandma not trying to help me, you know? And it's not like I know anything about my dad. Except that he was, apparently, a Gemini." She tried to laugh, but it came out as more of a bark. Darlington, still holding her hand, carded his thumb over her skin.

"I'm a Gemini," he offered. "Is this really Freudian now?"

"No more so than you pretending to be my cousin." He smiled, and in it Alex found the will to continue.

"I've never asked my mom about it, anyway. So I don't really know. But to answer your original question," she said, "My grandmother had an awful lot to say about men who were too beautiful." She pressed a thumb into the small cleft at Darlington's chin. "She would have come for you without mercy."

"Sounds like you take after her."

"Ha. She was much deeper than me. She used to say something else I loved, what was it? Uhh, _somos almicas sin pecado._ "

 _"We are little souls without sin?"_ Of course she could count on him for a flawless translation.

"Yeah. Not true for most people, but it's supposed to be a prayer, so I guess it has to be holy. Oh, wait! I have my next question for you," she said hurriedly, before it could slip from her mind. "You know how yesterday we had sex?"

"No, remind me."

She nudged against him with the top of her head. "Shut up. What was it you said right when we started? It sounded like you were praying."

A delicate blush rose in his cheeks for the first time since — well, since she'd last brought this up. "Must we recount all the sordid details, Stern?"

"Must you stall so obviously, Darlington?"

 _"Somos almicas con_ mucho _pecado,"_ he shot back, and she laughed despite herself.

"I know you're a WASP, don't act like you were speaking anything other than prim and proper English."

He sighed like a man defeated. "It was from a psalm, if you really must know."

"Which one? The one about the shepherds?" Her psalm knowledge was tenuous at best, but that one would be fitting.

"The singular shepherd, you mean? The shepherd in question being the Lord?"

"Whatever. Old Testament, right? Total classic, even the Jews love it."

His eyebrows shot up higher than she'd ever seen them go. "Stern, if you can recall all six lines of this particular psalm — in English _or_ Hebrew — I will give you one million dollars."

"Ooh, now we're talking. Um, okay. _The lord is our shepherd..."_ she tried. "Wait, no, _my shepherd._ I... want for nothing?"

_"Shall not want."_

"Right, duh. And then... hmm. Let me think." Alex was bluffing; she had no idea what came next. Darlington leaned in to give her the answers, a schoolboy with a too-earnest crush.

 _"He maketh me to lie down in green pastures,"_ he murmured. _"He leadeth me beside the still waters."_

"Oh, baby, tell me more."

"If you're going to make it sexual, I certainly will not."

"Is this the one where the cup runneth over?"

"It is, actually. Lucky guess." Without warning, he pulled her by the waist so she was almost on top of him, her breasts flush against his chest, and lowered his lips to graze hers. Alex felt suddenly, intensely overstimulated. "But it's not the one I was saying yesterday, and I'm not telling you anything else. My turn."

"Your turn for what?" she whispered, mind gone blank.

He laughed another genuine laugh and released her. She wanted to cling to him, even as sense came flooding back. _"Mas preguntas, por supuesto."_

"Show-off," she muttered. _"¿Que ahora? Escupirlo."_

"Why are you afraid of butterflies?”

Alex felt her whole body go rigid. "Pass."

"You can't pass," he said, touching her skin again, pinching her lightly, playfully.

"I just did." Something in her tone must have conveyed that this was unbreachable territory, because the next moment he was brushing soft, apologetic kisses against her hair, her forehead, the shell of her ear. Alex closed her eyes and let him. It wasn't so bad to be taken care of for once.

"You can try again, though," she said quietly.

He was silent for a moment, lips hovering at her jawline. Finally, he leaned back and lobbed her an easy one. "When did you start calling yourself Alex, instead of Galaxy?"

"I could ask you a very similar question, Daniel." Though he'd given her permission to use it earlier, the name felt wrong on her tongue, both overly formal and much too intimate. Still, she saw something happen behind his eyes as she said it, a flicker of longing she wanted to spark again. Would it work as well as his other name did in bed? _Only one way to find out._ She filed the thought away for later.

"I believe it's still my turn," Darlington was saying. "So you answer first." His voice was gentle — she didn't really have to answer, but this question she didn't mind.

"I've been going by Alex since I was twelve. Well, my mom still calls me Galaxy. Among other ridiculous things." _M_ _y little star,_ Mira's voice echoed in her head. Alex felt a swift, unexpected pang of homesickness, pushed through it like a curtain of beads. "What about you?"

"I came into my moniker much later. Not until my freshman year here."

"Really." She studied his face, trying to picture Darlington before he was Darlington, and found that she couldn't. He seemed to her as though he'd dropped out of the sky one day fully formed — a literal godsend, answering the prayers of Lethe.

"Yes. Michelle gave me the nickname, actually."

"Your Virgil?" He'd mentioned her once or twice, but Alex had gotten the impression that their relationship was strictly professional. Now, knowing that Michelle had been the one to christen him, she felt another unwanted, unnamed pang of emotion.

It crested into full-blown jealousy as he said: "It was an accident, a slip of the tongue. I only adopted it so enthusiastically because I had a crush on her at the time."

"Ah," Alex said, trying to sound casual. "So that's why you never had sex in this bed before. Too busy having sex in the Virgil bed."

"Ha!" Darlington burst out. "No. No. Absolutely not. You'll see when you meet her — I am _not_ her type."

Alex couldn't conceal her frustration. "What the fuck is that supposed to mean?"

"I'm not really at liberty to say. But trust me, that crush was vanquished within the month." The jealousy dissipated as he returned a hand to her waist, tracing light patterns into her skin. She nestled closer, reveling in it.

"The nickname, however, stuck. I suppose I wanted it to," he continued. "It was a neat symbol of a new start. I was more than ready to leave certain things in the past."

"Your grandfather." It slipped out before she could stop it. His expression, thankfully, didn't falter.

"And my name. Which I inherited from him, incidentally."

"We've really come full-circle on this conversation, Darlington." Something dawned on her. "Wait, do you mean your full name? So really, you're Daniel Arlington, Jr.?"

"Daniel Tabor Arlington." He winced. "The fifth."

Alex laughed. "Oh my god, no wonder you were so desperate to rebrand! I mean, it's fine, but couldn't your parents think of literally anything else? Wait, are you going to name _your_ kid the same thing?"

She stopped abruptly, realizing she'd edged too close to another serious topic — and, moreover, one that nobody in their right mind would raise after sleeping with someone exactly once. She shrunk down into the covers before risking a glance at his face.

But Darlington was smirking. "I thought I'd go with Galaxy, actually. Should pair nicely with Cosmo."

Alex relaxed. "Of course you would take your cat's name into account."

"It's only polite. He was there first."

" _I_ was here first, too. I know you're joking, but for the love of all that's holy, please do not name your child Galaxy."

"An ironic entreaty from a girl who can't even remember a psalm."

Even as he teased her, he was pulling her closer, laying his lips on her hair. He tipped her chin to kiss her fully, still so gently, mouth moving like a question against hers. The courtesy of it touched her.

Alex leaned into his body, the sensation of the kiss — but to her alarm found her senses blurring, her eyelids growing heavy. She still didn't _want_ to fall asleep, but their conversation had been surprisingly taxing, and his warmth was soothing her into somnolence.

"Is it afternoon yet?" she murmured into his mouth. "I'm going to rest for just a minute."

Darlington laughed quietly and allowed her to slip down his chest, coming to rest just under his steady heartbeat. She wrapped her arms around him and released a small sigh. "You make a good pillow."

"One of my many enviable talents."

"Shut up, Darlington." She could barely summon the energy to say it. _How did it get so warm in here?_

He was running his fingers through her hair again, gentle as a sea breeze, and it felt so impossibly nice. Hellie used to play with her hair sometimes. For once, the thought didn't make her sad, only grateful to have found someone else who cared for her in this particular way.

Darlington said something else, but it wasn't the sort of thing that required a response — so Alex let it go, burrowing pleasantly into the shallow sands of sleep. A few minutes later, she was aware of him extricating himself from her, swapping out his body for one of the actual pillows so she wouldn't stir. _Hey, I was going to do that to_ you, she thought, but couldn't quite form the words.

She was just so comfortable. And so exhausted. Between Halloween night and cramming for her midterm, she was still working off a major sleep deficit. Plus this was her own bed. Why shouldn't she sleep in it from time to time?

The last things she registered were Darlington's lips against her forehead and the creak of the door as it fell shut behind him. But he wasn't leaving, not really, just going into another room — he would be back for her.

It was the unshakable certainty of this fact that allowed her to submit to sleep at last, drifting into tranquil dreams of soft blue light, green pastures, and warm, cedar-scented skin.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Yes, Darlington is a Gemini (Alex is obviously a Scorpio). I am not budging on this issue, though I'm still intrigued to know whether others agree (I’ve heard some convincing arguments for Virgo Darlington, but I’m sticking to my guns). Sound off in the comments — or just come say hi!


	8. Enviable Talents

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _Alex reached the first floor and peered into the parlor. She was surprised, and then immediately not surprised at all, to see Darlington sitting at the piano in the corner of the room, his movements coalescing into a spirited, familiar-sounding piece._
> 
> _"Hey, Mozart," she called, leaning against the doorframe. "You take requests?"_
> 
> In which Darlington lives up to his Renaissance man reputation.

When Alex awoke, she was covered in sweat, as if she'd just broken a fever. Instinctively, she threw off the covers. Then yanked the sheet back up to her chin; she'd forgotten she was naked underneath. But Darlington didn't laugh at her modesty, because — despite what she'd told herself before dropping off to sleep — Darlington was no longer in the room.

Alex scrambled out of bed, feeling simultaneously frantic and irritated with herself for it. So what if Darlington had finished his research and gone home? Hadn't she done the same to him yesterday morning? _The Irish goodbye._ Well, she could dish it out, but maybe she couldn't take it.

It was an uncomfortable thought, and one that was only half-formed when she heard faint strains of classical music coming from downstairs. Her heart pounded. He was still here.

She pulled on her jeans and rushed to the armoire, wrenching it open to look in the mirror behind the door. She grimaced; her hair was tangled, her skin damp and sallow, and her nearly-restored tattoos looked menacing in the low light. Something throbbed behind her ear. She scraped her hair aside, revealing the smallest violet blotch where Darlington had nipped her.

"Asshole," she mumbled. At least she'd managed to return the favor.

Another problem presented itself: her shirt was downstairs. A Lethe sweatshirt it would have to be. She slid one from the shelf and over her shoulders, then checked her reflection again — a bit more scholastic, perhaps, but no less haggard. She was the picture of an overworked undergrad, strung out on uppers in the library. Well, if Dawes could make it work, so could she.

The far-off music swelled suddenly, as if cueing her entrance. Alex took a deep breath, a final glance in the mirror, and started downstairs.

It was strange, she realized, trailing a hand along the gleaming banister, that the sound was coming from there and not the speakers on the second floor. Perhaps Darlington had tired of the old stereo's temperamental ways and purchased a new one. But no — even the quality of the music sounded different than it should have through speakers. Had he bought them a record player? That would be just like Darlington, to insist on the superiority of something that hadn't been in its prime for decades.

Alex reached the first floor and peered into the parlor. She was surprised, and then immediately not surprised at all, to see Darlington sitting at the piano in the corner of the room, fingers flying over the keys, movements coalescing into a spirited, familiar-sounding piece.

"Hey, Mozart," she called, leaning against the doorframe. Darlington started and the music stopped. "You take requests?"

"Stern. Sorry if I woke you," he said, twisting on the bench to look at her. His hair was wet, falling into his eyes more than usual; he must have showered in the Virgil quarters while she was asleep. She felt a sort of internal swooping sensation, as if she were on an elevator that had just dropped several floors.

"That's okay. Although too bad about your stage career," she said, crossing the room to the sofa. "How'd you get suckered into this Lethe crap when you could've made it as a musician?"

He rolled his eyes. "I'm not _that_ good. Chordophones are more my forte."

"Chordo-what?"

"String instruments."

"Oh. Can you play me _Wonderwall?"_

He smiled. "For once I think I understand the reference. If I said yes, that would be a strike against me, correct?"

"Very good," she said, tucking her legs beneath herself. "And there's no guitar here anyway, so don't let me interrupt. Keep playing..." She waved a hand, a parody of a conductor. "Whatever."

"Don't you know?" It was her turn to roll her eyes. "Stern, you just said it."

"That wasn't _Wonderwall._ "

" _Mozart,_ Stern. Sonata number eleven."

"Oh! I was just making fun of you."

"I should have guessed." He turned back to the keys, picking up easily where he'd left off. Alex closed her eyes and let the music wash over her, feeling an odd, free-floating sense of contentment. When he finished, she applauded as she imagined one would at a recital.

"Bravo, bravo. Though I would've thought Mozart would be too mainstream for you. Who is it you normally like? Proko... prof..."

"Prokofiev, yes." He'd turned to her again. "Normally I'd be playing his _etudes._ But I have a soft spot for this bit of Mozart. It was..." A beat of hesitation before he pressed on. "One of my grandfather's favorites, or so he claimed. He liked me to play it for company — I think because most people would recognize it."

"That's funny," Alex said absentmindedly. "You'd think someone that rich would be gagging to show off their, like, elite musical tastes."

For a moment, Darlington's expression went cold, and she wished she could take it back. But then his face thawed over and he sighed. "My grandfather liked to indulge in the notion that, despite the family fortune, we were no better than anyone else. Hence, Mozart over Prokofiev. At least in public."

"And in private?"

"In private... well. He was more or less the same." He sounded so wistful. Alex pulled a throw pillow into her lap and crossed her arms over it, resisting the urge to get up and sit next to him.

"Play me something else," she commanded instead.

Darlington leaned back, cracking his knuckles performatively. "What would you like, o imperious one?"

"Something modern. If you can manage it."

His fingers instantly found the right keys as he swiveled in their direction. Soft, low notes emerged this time, circling one another like vultures. Darlington played a long intro, then moved up an octave for the first verse. Alex suddenly recognized the song: it was Regina Spektor, one of Hellie's old favorites.

The parlor, with its stained-glass sunlight and dark-haired boy bent over the piano, swam and faded before her. She was in a dim, smoke-choked room, sitting on the floor with her back against someone's bed, a pipe in her hand, the song warbling out of a cracked phone. Hellie was above her on the mattress, lying on her stomach but propped up on her elbows, slowly braiding Alex's hair into a thousand tiny, useless braids. She was singing softly, a little off-key — something about a boy keeping secrets, drowning himself in a porridge-thick lake.

 _This is a sad song,_ Alex said. She was so high, it seemed as though the words had come from someone else. Hellie lifted a half-finished braid to whisper in her ear, warm breath tickling Alex's skin. _I like her sad ones. But we can skip it if you want._

Alex could hear her perfectly, but she couldn't see her. She should have turned to look at her. Why didn't she look?

"Hey," Hellie said, somewhere she still couldn't see. No, it wasn't Hellie. Alex blinked and she was back in the parlor. Darlington was watching her with a guarded expression, asking if she was all right.

"It's nothing," she said, even as her voice shook. "A memory."

"What sort of memory?" It seemed as though he didn't quite want to ask. _When did you first see them?_ The cadence was the same.

"That song reminded me of my..." Any description would be inadequate, so she didn't bother with the truth. "My friend. Hellie."

"The one who was with you that night?"

"Yeah. It's weird," she went on, trying to smooth out her voice, "sometimes I just completely forget that she's gone."

"I know what you mean." Darlington's face had grown unbearably serious.

Alex shrugged off his concern. "Well. You know. So it goes."

"Ah. Vonnegut."

"What?"

 _"So it goes._ Vonnegut." She narrowed her eyes at him and he chuckled. "Oh, Stern. You are a broken clock that is right twice a day."

"Don't insult me, Darlington, or you'll never get blown again."

"By anyone?" His eyebrows shot up; the weight between them had lifted. "Are you planning to curse me?"

"Oh, yeah. I'll get Aurelian involved and everything." She couldn't help it — she rose from the couch and strode to the piano bench, perching on the end, gliding a hand over the keys. He slid closer and her body zinged with adrenaline.

"Zelinski would never go for it. We're great friends."

"The guy with the mohawk?" she said, heart stuttering as he placed a hand over hers on the piano. "No way."

"Well, maybe not _great_ friends," he murmured, distracted. He'd positioned his hand precisely on top of hers, and now he pressed down, both of them playing a low double note. Alex turned her hand over; it looked like a small, strange creature in his. Darlington laced their fingers together, lifted them from the keys and let them fall, intertwined, to the bench.

She dared to rest her cheek against his shoulder. He kissed her temple like it was an instinct, then laughed a little. "Why do you taste so sweaty?"

"Some of us don't feel the need to immediately shower away all evidence of sex, _Darlington_." She could feel her face warming as she said it, partly at her own defensive tone, but also because she definitely did taste like sweat.

Well. If she was going to embarrass herself, might as well do it thoroughly. Her mind pivoted to the most urgent, uncomfortable question she'd wanted to ask him before, barreling forth before she could second-guess it.

"Speaking of which... I'm so curious. For an almost-virgin, how are you so good at... all that stuff?"

He looked at her blankly, then turned just as pink as she felt. "Is that a compliment, or are you suspicious?"

"Why do you think they're mutually exclusive?"

"Why are _you_ so preoccupied with my sexual history?"

"I'm very immodest." It made him smile, even as his free hand agitated over the piano keys. "Also, hello, I assumed you didn't have one. I feel like Hiram discovering Peru or whatever."

"Machu Picchu," he corrected. "I suppose I'm flattered. The truth is..." Was it possible for him to blush harder? "I went on a few dates my sophomore year that ended... rather embarrassingly for me. Not unlike how this conversation is bound to," he added, trying for levity. "I decided to address it the same way I address most problems."

"Money? Magic?"

"Research."

Alex nearly choked on a laugh. "You _read up_ on how to have sex?"

"Yes. And apparently it worked. Though I must say," he said in a low tone, "I prefer the practicum."

She would have scoffed at the line. But as he said it, he twisted toward her, lifting his hand from the piano to graze her face, fitting the other to the curve of her waist. Looking at him head-on, this close, was like staring into the sun at high noon. Alex closed her eyes. She felt his lips brush against the bridge of her nose, her eyelids. He kissed each of them gently, reverently, performing another ritual known only to him.

"Did you learn this from a book?" Her voice came out a rasp.

"No, I'm improvising now."

Both hands at the small of her back, slipping under her sweatshirt, tracing her spine. Alex felt woozy, delectably wanted. She let him pull her on top of him and press her back into the piano, which made a discordant noise as she used its leverage to wrap her legs around his waist, her arms around his neck. She still had her eyes shut when he kissed her mouth, and her other senses were so heightened that she shuddered.

"Are you cold?"

"I'm _hot,_ " she whispered. Darlington groaned softly and caught the hem of her sweatshirt, ready to assist her.

But before he could pull it over her head, her stomach growled so loudly that it seemed to reverberate throughout the parlor. Through a fog of lust, Alex realized she was starving. She tried to ignore it, but Darlington was laughing, and she pulled back with a grunt of frustration.

"Sorry," he said, smiling beautifully, impossibly close. "That sound was otherworldly."

"Yeah, well. All I've had to eat today was breakfast and you." She nipped his lower lip for emphasis. "I guess we'll put a pin in this for now."

"Yes, I can resist ravishing you on the piano long enough for you to eat something."

"You were _not_ going to ravish me on the piano."

His eyes glinted. "Try me."

"Later," she said, even as an illicit thrill flickered through her. "First, food."

***

They'd shared meals, but he'd never cooked for her before. Alex felt a strange rush of domestic pleasure as she watched Darlington pulling things out of the fridge, lining them up on the counter like a parade.

"What are you making me?" she asked. She sat at the head of the kitchen table, chin in her hands, kicking her feet like a child.

"Something quick. I don't think your poor stomach can hold out much longer." He was already drizzling olive oil in a pan. His back was to her as he moved from counter to pantry and back again, and Alex let her eyes roam. From this angle, she could _just_ see the edge of the hickey she'd left on him, and it gave her another little thrill.

"Is cooking another one of your enviable talents?"

"More like passable." He cracked two eggs into a small ceramic bowl. "My grandfather didn't think it was a worthy pursuit for a young man. I'm pretty much limited to breakfast foods."

Alex swallowed a remark about sexist old white men, knowing it wouldn't get her any answers. "So he fully raised you, huh? No wonder you're so weird and old-fashioned."

Darlington turned to face her, leaning against the counter, whisking the eggs with a fork. He looked amused. "He did. And if you think I'm old-fashioned, I'm glad you'll never have the chance to meet him."

"Who says I won't?"

"That's right. I forgot to whom I was speaking."

"But you said _you've_ never seen him before." She'd remembered as she was saying it, and now felt a pang of shame, as if she'd taken something from him. "Do you think that means he's really gone?"

He'd turned to pour the eggs into the skillet and was now quickly chopping the vegetables he'd laid out. "Most likely, yes. He wasn't the type to linger. Would you like scallions in your omelet?"

"What?"

"Green onions. Do you enjoy them in omelets?" The knife was a blur in his hand. "I know you like tomatoes and bell peppers."

"I don't know. I've never had an omelet before in my life."

"Good Lord. I'll make an executive decision." Darlington scraped the colorful contents of the cutting board into the pan. Alex heard a light sizzle as a few pieces fell to the side, another as he sprinkled cheese on top. A minute later, he produced a spatula, folded the omelet gracefully in on itself, and slid it onto a plate.

"Passable, my ass," she said as he brought it to her. "You're a professional chef."

"Another compliment, Stern? And not even shrouded in suspicion this time."

"I'm always kind to those who feed me." She shoveled a forkful into her mouth, so hungry that she barely felt the burn on her tongue. "Do we have any hot sauce?"

He fetched it for her, then took the seat to her left, propping his long legs up on the chair to her right. With his arms crossed and his eyes on her, he looked oddly expectant.

"Uh, do you want some?" She didn't especially want to share, but maybe that was what he'd had in mind. Did he think it would be romantic? If so, he didn’t know her as well as she'd thought.

"No, I ate while you were asleep,” he said, to her relief.

"What else did you do? Besides practice your fingering."

_"Stern!"_

"With the piano! Get your mind out of the gutter."

"You pushed it in," he muttered. The blush on his neck made the hickey look even more prominent.

"I like you flustered, Darlington, but answer the question."

"I worked a bit more on the Bridegroom case. But I wasn't going to... you seemed upset when I mentioned it before."

Alex shrugged, mouth full of egg and bell pepper. "I was projecting. Not everything is about me."

"No," he said, studying her face. "But that doesn't render your feelings invalid."

"I'll invalidate my own feelings if I want to. Tell me more about the case."

He waved a dismissive hand, but his voice was earnest as he continued. "There's not a great deal to say. It piqued my interest because the Norths — the Bridegroom's family — were a New Haven dynasty. They were wealthy and well-established, his fiancée even more so, the sort of woman considered highly marriageable at the time. I began to wonder whether they'd both been killed by some business or romantic rival. Again, he was shot in the chest, which would have been unusual for a true suicide."

"Why do you say it like that, _true_ suicide?"

"My latest theory evolved upon discovering an eyewitness account from the fiancée's maid, who'd been waiting just outside. She swore that no one had entered the factory besides the two of them, and other witnesses attested that the maid herself entered only after hearing gunshots. All of which suggests that it was either the Bridegroom, as is now widely believed to be the case..." He fixed his eyes on her, and some dark weight in them almost made her shiver. "Or it was something else. Something that could enter and exit completely undetected."

"I'm guessing your theory has to do with the latter."

Darlington hesitated. "Are you sure you want to know?"

"Isn't it your job to tell me?"

"This has nothing to do with your training."

"Like hell it doesn't. You don't think the societies were involved?"

"Not necessarily. But I do think some malevolent force was at play. And both the Bonesmen and the Locksmiths were active by 1854 — maybe it _was_ one of their rites that drew it." Darlington shrugged, dropping his gaze to the black-and-white tiled floor. "Impossible to say without more research. It did not escape my notice, however, that a similarly suspicious incident occurred a few years later: a young woman was stabbed to death at the corner of College and Wall, again for no apparent reason."

The cross streets sounded familiar. "Isn't that where one of the tombs is?"

"It's the site of Scroll and Key. But they hadn't built their tomb yet — this was in the 1860s. Of course, they could still have been practicing their magic somewhere nearby."

Alex's fork scraped against an empty plate. She'd finished her food without realizing it. "You know, you're surprisingly interesting when you talk about non-manufacturing-related history."

Darlington smiled. "Did I mention the North family were carriage makers?"

"Ugh, so close." She let him take her plate to the sink, propped her feet up where he'd just been sitting. "At least the service here is good."

"I actually did work at a diner one summer, believe it or not."

"What, Grandpa wanted you to commune with the commoners?"

She regretted the snipe immediately, even more so when he said: "No, this was after he passed away. I had to work to maintain Black Elm. Which, as you know, was a futile effort anyway." He didn't sound sad, but matter-of-fact about the whole thing. Alex wished she hadn't opened her mouth.

"I'm sorry. I shouldn't have assumed." She stood and moved to the sink, placing her arms gingerly around him. Her head came up to the space between his shoulder blades. His shirt smelled like detergent and him.

Darlington twisted to face her, amused again. "Who are you and what have you done with Alex Stern?" His own hands came to rest at her hips. He tugged on her belt loops; Alex felt magnetized to him.

"What gave it away, the apology or the hug?"

"Unsure, I'm still in shock."

"Let me try and get back into character for you."

"Let me help." He bent down, lips just grazing her ear. "Manufacturing. New Haven. _Death waits on black wings and we stand, hoplite, hussar —_ "

"Oh my god, would you shut the fuck up?"

"There she is," he murmured — and before he could say anything else, she was twining her arms around his neck, and finally, finally standing on tiptoe to cover that pretentious mouth entirely with hers.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Only took me a month to update this, lolol. Thanks for your patience, readers 🙏
> 
> And sorry if anyone was expecting smut, I promise more is coming soon! Just thought it would be interesting to work through some of Darlington's research/thought process while untangling the nexus mystery, since we didn't really get to see that in the book. Or see him play the piano, or cook breakfast for Alex... it's like jeez Bardugo, throw a girl a bone. (Maybe in book 2, sigh.)


	9. Gravitas

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _It was a strange thing. They’d walked these streets so many times before; now being beside her felt both routine and utterly exhilarating. They were halfway back to campus before Darlington worked up the courage to reach for her hand, elation shooting through him when she didn't pull away, but threaded her fingers casually through his._
> 
> _As if she didn't even have to think about it. As if things had always been this way for them._
> 
> A brief finale at Il Bastone, a stroll back to Alex's dorm, and a revelation or two.

Darlington wasn’t sure which he liked better: kissing Alex Stern, or letting her kiss him. But the latter, at this moment, felt incomparably divine.

Her hands were in his hair, nails scraping against his scalp, her mouth collapsing into his. He still had his hands at her hips, thumbs in her belt loops. Boldly, she took his hand and moved it beneath her sweatshirt to her bare breast.  Darlington swept a thumb over her nipple and was instantly hard, pushing their hips together roughly, desire unraveling decorum in a way that was starting to feel very familiar.

“Piano?” she murmured, that delicious low rasp edging into her voice.

“You want to?” he said, unable to keep the eagerness from his own.

Alex only smirked. Then she peeled herself off him and grabbed his hand, marching them into the hallway, through the narrow door of the parlor. His heart raced as she led him to the piano bench rather than the sofa.

She pushed him down and climbed nimbly atop his lap, bracing her legs on either side of him, grinding down in one smooth motion. He felt the focused heat of her against him and couldn’t stop himself from moaning. She bit his lip; if she was trying to keep him quiet, it had the opposite effect. Darlington might have been embarrassed if he could have brought one single cell of himself to care.

As it was, he only plunged his hands under her sweatshirt again, hungrier to touch her than before, ravenous.  His mouth was at her neck and his hands on her upper back when the grandfather clock rang out in the hall, and Alex jolted in his arms like she'd been shocked.

“Fuck! What time is it?”

“Sounds like five o’clock,” he said into her collarbone, amazed that he could form the words at all. 

“God _dammit_.” She rolled away from him and he felt incredibly exposed. “I have to get back. Mercy said she’d help me with this midterm and I don’t want to bail on her. Again.”

Darlington tried to will away his erection, but it only throbbed worse as she stripped off the Lethe sweatshirt right in front of him — and in full view of the lower windows, no less.

“ _Propriety,_ Stern!” He averted his eyes, shifting them to scan for stray pedestrians. Thankfully, no one was around.

“You know what I look like!” he heard her say. Now came the soft sounds of her slipping her Henley back on. He faced her once he knew she was decent, wary of his own delicate situation. “Do we have to go through this every time? Am I really that irresistible to you?”

“Not for me, you narcissist. Anyone could have seen you through the windows.”

“And you wanna be the only one, right?”

“Maybe,” he said, feeling chagrined. “What did you mean by ‘bail on her _again_ ’?”

Alex bent to gather her things. “You might recall that I abandoned her and Lauren the other night to take care of your sorry ass. I was supposed to meet them at Inferno and I obviously never showed.”

“Like I said, they were probably too drunk to even notice.”

“It’s the principle of the thing,” she said, parroting him. “Besides, I need her help. These soc case studies are Greek to me.”

“What if _I_ helped you study instead?”

She raked her eyes over him, skeptical. He knew how he must look: pupils blown, hair mussed, hard-on still half visible in his jeans. Another smirk surfaced on her lips. “We’re not gonna study if I stay here.”

It was a fair point. “May I at least walk you back to your dorm?”

“I’ll allow it,” she said, singsong. “No funny business, though.”

He crossed his heart to promise her, not meaning a single stroke.

***

It was a strange thing. They’d walked these streets so many times before; now being beside her felt both routine and utterly exhilarating.  They were halfway back to campus before Darlington worked up the courage to reach for her hand, elation shooting through him when she didn't pull away, but threaded her fingers casually through his. As if she didn't even have to think about it. As if things had always been this way for them.

The unseasonable November heat had dissipated, winter beckoning in the pale blue air.  They walked down Orange in easy silence, footsteps echoing off the pavement. He stroked her palm as they turned the corner onto Elm. Alex pinched him back, but not too hard.

_"Pasa punto, pasa mundo,"_ he heard her murmur under her breath. "Control your lusts, Darlington. They're coming at us in droves."

"I'd hardly qualify hand-holding as _lusty_ behavior," he said, before his mind caught up to her meaning. "There are Grays here?"

"At least a dozen on this block."

"Oh. I'm sorry, I didn't... you can let go if you want."

He thought he saw a smile flit across her face. "I'm good."

Well, he could help her fend them off, at the very least.  _“Winter will come on,"_ he spoke to the seemingly empty street. Alex squeezed his hand in silent thanks.

“For some reason they listen to you more than me. Do you think ghosts can be sexist? A lot of them _are_ from like, the olden days.”

“It’s a possibility.”

“What else could it be?”

“I have gravitas.”

“And I don’t?”

He smiled into the shadows. “I wouldn’t say it’s your strongest suit.”

She seemed to accept that. “You know, it does kinda feel like winter is coming on.” As if on cue, she shivered slightly; he could feel goosebumps rising where their forearms touched.

“Here.” He shrugged off his jacket and handed it to her. Alex hesitated, holding it away from her body like it might detonate.

“It’s just a jacket, Stern.”

“Haven't you heard, Darlington? Nothing is ever _just_ anything.” But she slipped it on anyway, and he relished how she burrowed into the warmth left by his skin.  He let his gaze linger for another moment: her eyes shone like dark gems under the streetlights, her hair spilled black as night over his camel-colored jacket. The effect was striking, a painter's composition. He thought again of Titian, of Venus.

"You look like a painting." It was out of his mouth before he could stop himself.

Alex, of course, rolled her eyes. "Men always say shit like that to women  wearing their clothes."

"Meaning?"

"You like feeling like you own me or something."

He laughed. "I would never be deluded enough to believe _that_."

"Well, if you did, you wouldn't be the first." Darlington could think of nothing meaningful to say in response. But he kept on stroking the tender skin of her palm,  and it pleased him when she relinquished a small, indulgent sigh.

They lapsed into comfortable silence again, winding through the verdant paths of Old Campus, matching its quiet. Suddenly they were on the doorstep of Alex's Vanderbilt suite, and Darlington found he didn't want to let go of her hand.

Alex seemed similarly reluctant — nonetheless, she was the one to break away. She turned to face him, fixing him with an odd stare, her expression unreadable even under the building's amber lights. He waited, as he had before, for her to reveal herself to him: watching her eyes flash in the dim light, wondering what she could read in his own face.

"What are we doing?" Alex asked finally. She'd crossed her arms over her body like a shield.

Darlington supposed he should have expected the question, but it floored him all the same. Of every woman he'd ever met in his life, Alex Stern seemed perhaps the least inclined toward labels or expectations of any sort.

"I don't know," he said, honestly.

"Well, are we still fucking _playing it by ear,_ or not? Because, turns out, I don't really want to do that with you."

He was stung by the hard edge to her voice, the apparent force of her doubt.  The shock must have been evident on his face, because her own expression softened as she said: "I just don't want things to get all messed up, you know?"

"With Lethe?" He took her wrists in his hands, drew her closer. He saw her guard drop another degree. "With us?"

"Either. Both."

"That's not going to happen," he promised. "Stern... Alex. If it were not already abundantly clear, allow me to elucidate."

He cleared his throat, as if preparing to deliver an actual speech; he could even feel oration-adjacent nerves tingling in his veins, her stare as intense as a room full of people. 

"I want to be with you," he said. "Very much so. I don't plan on letting it affect our work, because I don't plan on feeling differently anytime soon. And consistency, if you ask me, is more important to your training than pure professionalism." At this, he raised her wrist to his mouth, brushing his lips over her soft skin, those small sharp bones.

Alex sucked in a breath, her face still inscrutable. Darlington felt a stab of panic. Had he only imagined the words she'd nearly spoken mere hours ago? Worse yet, had they been a passing impulse, a false flare in the heat of the moment? Perhaps she did feel differently now, after the clarifying influences of sleep and food. His mind flashed back to the day they'd met, his careless prescription of _snack and a long nap._

Or. Perhaps she simply did not want to be his. To be "owned," no matter how ridiculous the notion, no matter that he would never think of it that way. She still did. She'd said as much.

Darlington knew that Alex Stern wasn't a butterfly to keep in a box. But what did it matter if she felt like the box was closing in around her?

"Then again," he said, dropping her wrist, forcing himself to say the words, "perhaps... you don't share these feelings. And that would be fine. We could go back to normal." He looked at her other hand, such a small thing, still clasped in his like a treasure. "Somehow."

A moment passed. A world passed. Then Alex said quietly: "You honest-to-god dumbass. Obviously, I want to be with you, too."

“You do,” he said, his heart rising with something unnameably wonderful.

She looked at him, and now her face was so open, so alight — it was just how she’d looked when he’d first shown her magic. Her eyes shone even brighter as she whispered, “Yeah, of course I do.”

“Good. Okay, good. I’m glad." He felt like an idiot; he felt indestructible. And suddenly he remembered what else he needed to tell her, blurting it out even as she leaned in to kiss him, even as he cursed himself for ruining this moment.

“Just so you know — I’ll be in New York for the next few days.” Alex rocked back on her heels, frowning at his words. “I meant to go this weekend, but... well. Something came up.” Their hands were still linked, and he raised them in a _what can you do_ sort of gesture, relieved when it smoothed the furrow in her brow.

“You mean some _one_ came. Or two someones, rather.”

“Stern, that’s crass even for you.”

“You knew what you were getting yourself into.” She shrugged, the motion causing his jacket to slip off her shoulder to one side. Almost unconsciously, he raised a hand to trace the small patch of skin it revealed. _Like a prelude._ Would touching her ever not feel this way?

Alex looked smug, as if she could tell precisely what he was thinking. “What are you doing in New York?”

“Hm? Oh, yes,” he said, refocusing. “More Bridegroom research, if you can believe it. Most of the North family relocated to the city after his death — probably in an attempt to escape the scandal. So I’ll visit their old stomping grounds, look up some nineteenth century census and police records. The New York office also has a few pertinent files that I’d quite like to pore over firsthand.”

Her smug look vanished. “The New York office where Michelle works?”

"She actually works for Butler Library, at Columbia." Alex's stony expression didn't change, and Darlington suppressed a laugh. "Stern, you must know this sense of jealousy is _extremely_ misdirected."

"Would it be better directed at someone else?" she said, her voice bordering on a growl.

"God forbid." He pulled her into his chest, glad for the excuse to touch her again, even more so when she buried her hands and face in his shirt. He touched her back, stroked the smooth, dark rivers of her hair. "I won't be gone long," he murmured into her ear.

"How long is not long?"

"I'll be back Thursday." Now she looked up at him in alarm. "Before the ritual, don't worry."

"Okay," Alex said slowly, absorbing the information. "Five days isn't so bad."

He kissed the top of her head. "It's really not. And it's not like I'm going completely off the grid. We'll be in touch."

"You'll text me?"

"Of course."

She smiled that pure, open smile again, that smile that meant magic. Then she sighed, breath huffing in the air that had turned frigid around them. "Ugh. I need to go, I'm sure Mercy's waiting inside."

"Of course," he said again. Neither of them moved.

"Seriously, I have to go."

"All right."

"Darlington." Alex unstuck herself and took a step back from him, but didn't let go of his shirt. His body followed hers like a wave, gently pressing her into the wall beside her door. Her eyes reflected the amber light as she stepped beneath it. The irises looked golden, like a cat's.

Darlington truly meant to be chaste, adhere to her _no-funny-business_ decree — there might still be Grays lurking nearby. But as he brushed a close-mouthed kiss to Alex’s lips, they parted instantly, her hands tangling in his hair. A small, breathy sound rose in her throat, a sound that he now recognized as arousal.

And then his own lips were parting and he was hitching his hands beneath her thighs, lifting her body to push her against the brick wall.  Alex gasped and surged forward to meet him, clutching his hair to kiss him fiercely, mercilessly. He hiked her up higher, getting a good grip on her ass, feeling her legs tighten around him.  Another shameful groan escaped him, quickly overcome by a wash of uncaring bliss.

All at once, he didn’t care where they were, who could see them. He only wanted to finish what they’d started back at Il Bastone. He wanted more of her, all of her, _God,_ he wanted to —

"Holy motherfucking _shit."_

It was like a glass toppling from a table, everything happening in slow motion: Darlington heard the words and registered they were not Alex's. Then he felt her mouth detach from his, her body scrabbling against the wall as she tried to get down. He released her and stumbled back, blinking himself into a living nightmare.

Mercy Zhao was standing in the doorway of the Vanderbilt suite, mouth agape, holding a knotted trash bag in one hand. Mercy, who believed he was Alex's first cousin. Who'd just witnessed them almost Biblically intertwined against the side of a building.

"Hey, Mercy," Darlington said hoarsely. She said nothing, only continued to stare. He was hyper-conscious of his erection; his dilemma in the parlor now seemed like a balmy stroll through the park. Alex wiped her mouth and gave her head a vicious shake, like a dog.

"Hey, Merce. Thanks for waiting." She sounded preternaturally calm, as if trying to talk her roommate down from a ledge. "I'll be right in, okay? And hey," she said, taking the trash from Mercy's frozen grip. "Darlington can get this, he was just leaving."

"Um. Okay," Mercy managed to choke out. She cast one final, disbelieving look at Darlington, then shut the door behind her with (what seemed to him) a very judgmental _click._

Alex leaned against the wall, scrubbing a hand over her face. She looked more dazed than upset. "That's gonna be a tough one to explain away."

"At least you now have a boy-shaped human to gaze at you adoringly." This provoked the blankest stare possible on Alex's part, like he'd been speaking a different language. Had he? _No,_ he thought feverishly, _that was in English._

"I'm referring to myself." He felt like he was going slightly insane — even more so when Alex's face cracked and she began to laugh. Soon she was doubled over in hysterics, still holding that bag of garbage, though it threatened to slip from her grasp any second.

"Oh, my god! Oh, Jesus. Darlington," she said, hiccuping, trying to catch her breath. "This is off to the _worst possible start."_

He began to laugh too, without really knowing why. "I suppose that interaction could have gone better."

"You think?" Alex had straightened but was still giggling, and he laughed along with her. He'd do anything right along with her, possibly forever.

"Oh my god. Okay," she said, composing herself. She thrust the trash at him and Darlington took it, still feeling a little deranged. "I'd better get in there and start lying my ass off."

Her hand was at the doorknob now, but she turned to give him one last sly, winning smile. "Hey. Thanks for making it worth my while." It took him a second to realize she was quoting him from earlier, in the precious moments just before they'd slipped inside Il Bastone.

"My pleasure, Stern," he said softly as she disappeared behind the door, the _click_ this time sounding a touch more lenient. He was left standing alone in a freshman dorm corridor, a bag of trash in one hand and nothing in the other, no jacket or scarf to mitigate the chilly walk back to where he'd parked the Mercedes.

Yet as he started down the Vanderbilt stairs, he felt no cold, only the warmth where her lips had touched him. He couldn't smell the day-old coffee grounds in the garbage; for him, the world was still infused with the tangy verbena scent of her hair. And when Darlington looked up at the sky, feeling extraordinary, he didn't see the stars. He saw Alex as Queen Mab, smiling benevolently, finally welcoming him into her arms.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hey readers! As you may be able to tell, _this_ was going to be the original ending... but then I had another idea, so it's going to unspool just a little bit more 🙃
> 
> For the record, I am perfectly aware of how nuts I am for writing a 30k+ Darlingstern fanfic when this fandom is so small. But every single comment fills my heart with such joy that it's honestly been worth it many times over. Truly, thank you all for reading, and I hope you guys enjoy these last few chapters ❤️


	10. Interlude

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _Alex Stern and Darlington Arlington are typing..._
> 
> Just some good old-fashioned text flirting to fill the days.

**Sunday, 6:37 pm**

Alex Stern to Darlington Arlington:  
_wtf is the western mark effect??_

Darlington Arlington to Alex Stern:  
**Ha. Did Mercy bring it up after she saw us? **

_yeah, she did. how’d you know?_

** The Westermarck effect posits that those who spend early childhood together will never become attracted to one another. Basically explains why siblings don’t end up erotically entwined. **

_...and cousins, i’m guessing_

**Indeed. What did you tell her? **

_don’t worry, i kept up our ruse. but in a loophole-y way that makes it not creepy for us to make out._

**Very intrigued to hear how you managed that. **

_i said you were adopted (which isn't a total lie, right?). and that we'd never met before yale (also not a lie), so no westermark weirdness._

**Hm. Not the worst cover-up, all things considered.**

_thank you, i'm a genius 🧠_

**Don't get ahead of yourself. It was _my_ brilliant strategy to begin with.**

_dude, it was full of holes. you should have just pretended to be my boyfriend in the first place._

** Sounds like a recipe for a romantic comedy. **

_maybe that’s what i’ll do with MY dante_

** You’re breaking my heart, Stern. Go study for your midterm. **

_ttyl, darlington arlington. lmk what we’re doing thursday when you find out._

**Monday, 9:25 pm**

** Hey, how did it go today? **

_not great._ _almost like i scammed my way in here or something._

** Should have let me help you study. **

_as if that would have been more productive_

**On the contrary, I’m an excellent motivator. 👍**

_lol. you couldn’t even get me to finish life of lethe._

** I thought you’d finished it ages ago?! **

_why bother when you can recite the whole thing for me on command?_

** Maybe because I won’t be around forever. **

_yeah right. like you'd ever leave new haven._

** I’m ninety miles from New Haven right now. **

_for more than a few days, i mean. seriously — have you ever?_

** I spent my whole sophomore summer abroad in Paris. **

_the site of all your embarrassing dates???_ 👀

** This conversation has taken a dark turn. **

_i’ll take that as a yes_

** Goodnight, Stern. I’ll see you Thursday for more dark turns, as it were. **

**Tuesday, 8:02 am**

_speaking of thursday, any word?_

** It’s going to be Book & Snake again. Not sure who we’re raising this time. **

_i hope it’s someone famous_ ✨

** I hope it’s someone pithy, so we can get out of there fast. **

_you’re making me swoon_

** Not like that, Stern. I’m just not especially fond of their methods. **

_yeah, they’re creepy. or as lol would say: “there is an element of the unsavory to the art of necromancy, and this natural revulsion can be nothing but increased by the way the lettermen have chosen to present themselves.”_

**Impressive reference. “lol”? **

_life of lethe, obviously_

** You see how that could be confusing over text. **

_that's the joke, darlington_

**If you say so. Well done getting back to your reading, in any case. **

_gotta fill the hours somehow. how’s your research going?_

**It’s going. The records here are quite thorough, but the New York office is being somewhat withholding.**

_and how’s michelle?_

** I actually met her for drinks yesterday. It was nice to catch up. **

_bet it was_

** Oh, Stern. You’re cute when you’re jealous. **

_what a cliché_

** You’re the one living it. **

_whatever. did you tell her about me?_

** I did. I told her a great deal about you.**

_oh did you now?_

**Mostly about how deeply unprofessional you are. **

😒

** I’m joking. **

_you’re bad at it_

** I miss you. **

_was THAT a joke?_

** No, I really do. You keep me on my toes.**

_i miss your annoying ass, too. going to breakfast w/ lauren now. enjoy fancy nyc brunch with michelle!!!!_

** I am having continental breakfast in my hotel alone, but I appreciate the sentiment. **

_that was sarcasm_

** Yes, I know. I appreciate it nonetheless. 👍**

**Wednesday, 4:16 pm**

** Keeping our daily text streak going — how’s your Wednesday? **

_bored in spanish. wanna sext?_

** I’m about to see my parents, so probably not. **

_you have parents?!_

** Yes. I’m not Batman. **

_wish you were_

** Don't we all.**

_what are they doing in new york?_

** They live here.**

_so close! why do you never mention them?_

**I rarely see them. We’re what you might call estranged. **

_yikes. i'm sorry. are you like reconnecting with them today?_

** Not exactly. I need their signatures on something for Black Elm. I _shouldn’t_ need them, as I’m no longer a minor, but according to my insurance agent it’s critical. **

_so you’re meeting them for dinner or what?_

** Just coffee. **

_okay, well. let me know how it goes._

** It will go as it always goes. But thank you. **

_anytime. hey, darlington?_

** Yes? **

_i’ll have dinner with you when you get back._

** Are you asking me on an actual date, Stern?**

_only if you tell me about your other dates, in paris_ 🥖

** What happens in Paris stays in Paris. **

_you think that’s going to stop me?_

** I have to go, my parents are here. **

_a likely story_

** They actually are. I’ll ttyl, as you would say. **

_ttyl drlngtn (that’s your text name)_

** Thanks, I hate it. **

_hey, good meme! and good luck with your parents. i’m sure it will be fine._

**Thursday, 2:05 pm**

_you're back this afternoon, right?_

** Certainly am. Just boarded my train. **

_so back around 4?_

** Yes, though I’ll have to go straight to class, and then I'm booked solid until 8.**

😞

** Won’t _you_ be in class anyway? I will see you tonight for the ritual. ** ** Among other things.**

_are we sexting NOW_

** We are not. **

_could’ve fooled me_

** I am excited to see you, though. **

_i’m excited for the other things._

🙄

_an emoji that’s not a thumbs up?? am i rubbing off on you_

** Perhaps. **

_send me another_

😘

_that was definitely a sext._

** I'll see you later, Stern. **

_see you tonight, darlington._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I know Alex texts with caps and everything in the book, but I reeeaally feel like she’d be an all-lowercase texter. And would always be trying to teach Darlington about emojis and memes and stuff. (I've thought way too much about this, it's fine.)


	11. Reawakening

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _He was just closing the gate behind him when a small, dark shape emerged from the house, silhouetted in light from the hallway. He'd hardly registered the figure before it was sprinting down the steps, onto the path, flinging itself at him with such force that he stumbled. And then there was Alex: her weight in his arms, her lips wild and searching, her body like a burning match after all these days spent apart._
> 
> In which Alex and Darlington reunite, only to be tragically cockblocked by prior engagements.

Darlington would remember that week in November as perhaps the longest of his life. He'd spent far too many hours at the New York office on Monday, mainlining coffee and growing increasingly short with the poor assistant whose job it was to pull records for him. He had gone on to waste most of Tuesday in Greenwich Village, where the North family had once lived, chasing his tail around the 6th Precinct before realizing no one there was going to help him.

On Wednesday it was back to the office, then coffee with the Layabouts. They'd arrived looking strangely hopeful — his mother in bright lipstick, his father emphatically shaking his hand. It dawned on Darlington too late that they thought he’d changed his mind about Black Elm. When he brought out the new insurance papers, their faces fell like leaves from a tree.

Signatures thus reluctantly given, his mother had pulled on sleek black gloves, his father handed him a new business card, and they’d departed. Darlington had crumpled the card into the trash on his way out, glad for once to be stepping straight into the numbing wind tunnels of Lower Manhattan.

So yes, the days were long. The nights stretched even longer. He forced himself to turn on the TV, to order room service, to look back over his notes from the day, in which his handwriting grew more erratic with each bout of overcaffeination. He worried he was texting Alex too much and made up rules to keep himself in line: he would turn off his phone while working (the only one he actually stuck to). He wouldn’t drunk-text her (a rule broken Monday night), double-text her (broken Wednesday afternoon), or say anything remotely sexual (broken Thursday).

All the rules in the world couldn’t keep him from thinking of her. It was worst when he switched off the lights. He could practically feel the curves of her body, the heat of her mouth. Each night he tossed and turned until 6 a.m., when the hotel gym opened and he could pound away his thoughts on the manufactured incline of a treadmill.

On Wednesday night, exhausted, he finally gave into the drugstore lights glaring on every corner and purchased a bottle of melatonin and another of cheap merlot. He awoke with a dull headache, but it was the first time he'd gotten eight hours of sleep since... well.  Darlington felt foolish, but it didn't matter. He'd be back in New Haven that night.

As the train shot up the coast, he wondered if she could possibly have missed him as much as he'd missed her. Her texts had been lively, flirtatious, but not exactly fraught with longing. But then, hadn't he taken care to present himself in the same way? To mirror her easy manner?

And like a reflection, when he'd let the mask slip, she had too. _i miss your annoying ass._ He'd reread that exchange a hundred times and it still made him want to grin at every passing stranger on the train.

Indeed, he should have been using this time to organize his research, but instead he scrolled all the way back in his phone, rereading their conversations from long before Halloween. At one point, she'd said he had a "pretty face" — as casually as if complimenting his shoes.

 _Perhaps there's portrait of me somewhere that's absorbing all my vices,_ he'd texted back, too carried away with himself to even consider the possibility that she was flirting.

 _you don't have any vices,_ Alex had replied. _you're thinking of me._ This was the day after they'd smashed all the crystal, and he'd figured she was just feeling magnanimous. Now he wanted to reach back in time and smack himself. He could have gone straight to her dorm room and kissed her a full six weeks sooner, could have pressed her against the bricks and made her gasp, just as he had the other night.

 _Well,_ he thought as the train pulled into New Haven station, having whiled away the entire journey on Alex Stern, steeped in the delicious anticipation of seeing her again. _One is_ _certainly_ _better late than never._

***

He was on autopilot in American studies when she texted him: _fuck me. mercy and lauren wanna go out tonight. i don't think i have a choice._

 _That's definitely going to interfere with me fucking you,_ Darlington almost typed, like he'd lost control of his brain. He took a minute to compose himself before replying: _What do you mean, you don't have a choice?_

 _they found out why i bailed on inferno & made me promise to come to the next thing w/ them. _He was about to protest that, surely, a party this weekend would suffice, when a second text hastily followed: _also it's kind of a special occasion. would be really weird if i said no._

This piqued his interest, but he knew better than to press for details she hadn't offered. _They know you have a prior engagement, yes?_

_yeah, i don't have to meet them till ten._

He watched her typing, the ellipses undulating in their little bubble, then disappearing, then reappearing again. Distantly, he was aware of Josh Zelinski making some interminable point about Ernest Hemingway and naturalism. How one could find so much to say about such sparse prose, Darlington had no idea.

Finally the text came through. _they said you can come if you want tho. do you?_

He didn't especially. He wanted to throw her over his shoulder like a beast and carry her straight to bed. But if it was between hanging with her roommates for a little while and parting ways immediately after the ritual's planned end at 9:45, there was no question.

 _Sure,_ he texted back. _I'll bring the flaming Dr. Pepper shots._

So far was his mind from the class, the next hour seemed to pass in seconds. Suddenly everyone around him was packing up their notebooks and raising the hard plastic surfaces of their desks to stand. Darlington scrambled to his feet. It was time to head to Il Bastone. He burst out of the classroom into the arctic night, feeling more awake than he had in days.

Nervous energy propelled him down the streets faster than usual. Before he knew it, he was standing before the wrought-iron gate of the house on Orange. The lights were on in the kitchen and parlor. But that didn't mean anything — Dawes would surely be there tonight.

He was just closing the gate behind him when a small, dark shape emerged from the house, silhouetted in light from the hallway. He'd hardly registered the figure before it was sprinting down the steps, onto the path, flinging itself at him with such force that he stumbled. And then there was Alex: her weight in his arms, her lips wild and searching, her body like a burning match after all these days spent apart.

It was too much. Darlington crumpled against the gate, pulling her gracelessly down with him.

"Hello, Stern," he said as they hit the ground. "I've missed you."

“Jesus, Darlington.” Alex was laughing. "I can tell. You don't have to have a stroke about it."

“Sorry,” he managed, overwhelmed by her straddling him in the wet grass, the moonlight pooling in the contours of her face.

“Lying in the yard like a noon drinker,” she teased, and touched his face to kiss him — gently now, like she wasn’t sure he could handle it. Maybe he couldn’t. He wrapped his arms around her anyway and let the kiss deepen, hardly daring to believe this was real.

“Evening drinker. More socially acceptable." His words were swallowed up by her mouth.

“Mmm. I don’t know about that,” she murmured, pressing closer, smiling a little when he squirmed. But the next instant, something else caught her attention and she reeled back, smile sliding off her face like rain.

 _“Take courage. No one is immortal,”_ she barked over his left shoulder. Darlington twisted instinctively to look, but of course he could detect nothing out of the ordinary. Alex had sat back on his legs and was massaging her temples.

“Fucking ghosts,” she muttered, seemingly more to herself than to him. “Can’t even make out with my boyfriend for five goddamn seconds.”

His heart, he could swear it, turned over in his chest. “What was that?”

He thought she might scoff, or act embarrassed. Instead she grinned. “I _said_ , can’t even give my _Virgil_ a goddamn _boner_ —" at this she palmed him roughly, and he shuddered beneath her hand, “— without some undead _motherfucker_ trying to make it a _ménage à trois_."

"Why don't we take our _ménage_ inside?" They were supposed to be at Book and Snake in fifteen minutes. Darlington did not care. 

"Because Dawes is in there. That's why I came out."

"I doubt she could hear us on the top floor," he heard himself saying.

Alex arched a brow. "Are you suggesting we sneak past Dawes, all the way up to the Virgil room, just so we can have a quickie before we go hang with the necromancers?"

"You can't spell necromancers without romance." What the hell was he saying _now?_

Blessedly, she laughed. "Since when am I the responsible one?" She rose easily, brushing grass from her shins, and extended a hand to help him up. For one breathless, moonlit moment, he thought she might lead him inside after all.

But she only kissed him quick and laced her fingers through his. With her other hand, she reached for the latch on the gate.

"Come on, Darlington. We have all night. We can afford to be shepherds for a little while."

***

As it turned out, the corpse of honor that evening was neither famous nor pithy — the only thing it had going for itself was recency of death. It (or he, rather) was a lawyer in his early fifties, and he'd been killed less than a week ago, in a manner that struck Darlington as almost suspiciously Christie-esque: stabbed in the neck by a masked figure, at a dinner party full of distinguished political guests.

Because the murder weapon had vanished and the man (his name was George something) hadn't seen the perpetrator's face, it took nearly an hour for the Lettermen to coax out enough information to form a working theory. By that time, George had surmised that he was, in fact, dead, and that the end of the ritual would mean the end of his sentient existence.

It was only natural when he began to stall. "I must be forgetting something," he kept saying, only to bring up another inane detail about the hostess's kitchenware or the caterers' uniforms.

Darlington felt sorry for the man. Normally the poor creatures raised at Book and Snake had been extinct for years, if not decades. The passage of time meant that their souls had withered to little more than airline black boxes: they could regurgitate information when prompted, but that was it. Whatever remained of the original inhabitants would be more animal than human, almost entirely unaware of what was happening to them.

George, unfortunately, was lucid. His eyes darted around the room as the delegates discussed the case. His skin was blue from the industrial freezer he'd been kept in, his joints swollen with days-old rigor mortis, but he otherwise looked like he could be an alumnus himself. 

"Friends," he pleaded at last, as the hour approached ten and the presiding Charon stepped forward. His hands and feet had been bound as a precaution. "Please. I'm sure I can think of more to help —"

 _"Et flumen sibi vendicat vos,"_ the Charon spoke, almost kindly, retrieving a glinting talisman from around her neck. She pressed it against the man's chest, over his heart, and continued reciting in Latin. He stiffened on the stone table ("like in Narnia," Alex had said at the September ritual), his eyes going wide and glassy.

Darlington felt Alex shiver beside him. It was hardly pleasant to watch someone be put back to death. But to be fair, this was far from the most disturbing Book and Snake ceremony he'd attended. And he was ultimately glad they hadn't blown it off — the fresher the body, the more likely it was to try and escape. George had been fine up to this point, but Darlington knew that de-animation was where things often got dicey.

At least the Grays seemed to be keeping their distance. He and Alex had been exceptionally careful since Aurelian: double-lining chalk circles, bringing extra provisions when disruption or possession were particular risks. But tonight they'd barely needed any memento mori. Which was odd, given how lively their corpse had been. Perhaps the ghosts of New Haven had someplace else to be.

Now he heard Alex sigh with relief as the man on the table gave a final shudder, then went completely still. Darlington, for his part, said a silent prayer. Just because this wasn't his first death, didn't mean he was undeserving of sacraments.

"Hey." Alex was tugging at his sleeve; he realized he'd closed his eyes. "It's over. We can go now, right?"

"Just one moment," he said, opening his eyes, allowing himself to look at her. She'd been across the room for most of the ceremony, guarding the northern and eastern gates. Only a few spirits had tried their luck during the first hour, so as the interrogation was winding down, he'd gestured for her to come watch beside him.

But inevitably, once she was inches away, Darlington found he couldn't concentrate. He cursed the sparse interior of the tomb, with no place for him to hold her hand under a table, or even to brush a subtle leg against hers. After those five days in New York, not touching her when she was so close seemed a travesty.

Now he worried they'd be further delayed by talks with the Lettermen. But when he caught the Charon's eye, she smiled and waved them off. Good. The delegates had things in hand. (And how could they not? Even Darlington, who'd paid very little attention over the past half hour, could have told you that it was the junior partner at the firm. With the fillet knife. In the drawing room.)

"All right, Stern," he murmured to her. "We've fulfilled our obligations."

Alex cut him an amused look. "I think that's the first time you've referred to Lethe stuff as _obligations._ "

"Well," he said, keeping his voice low as they started toward the door, "it's never been such an impediment to what I'd _really_ like to be doing."

"What did I say about controlling those lusts, Darlington?" But she slipped her hand into his as they exited, finally alone under the cover of night.

Or almost alone. Still in the grip of Orozcerio, Darlington could see how even the barest touch between them drew the Grays' attention. Luckily, there weren't many on the street.

"Ghostbusters must be in town," Alex said, reading his mind. "Wait. Are _we_ the ghostbusters?"

"Not the most dignified comparison, but it's accurate, I suppose."

"Are you calling Bill Murray undignified?"

"I didn't say that." Darlington contemplated. "Though it is true."

"You know, you're such a consistent snob, it's almost comforting." They were far from Book and Snake now, Alex pulling him in the direction of the frats. He'd already forgotten where they were going, but his expectations were low. Best case scenario, the music would be playing at a tolerable volume and no one would spill anything on him. And maybe — just maybe — they could escape after an hour to Black Elm.

His thoughts must have drifted too far in that direction, because a moment later Alex was flicking him in the shoulder. "Hello? Earth to Darlington."

"Did you say something?" In his mind, they were in a dark car speeding toward Westville, his hand caressing her upper thigh.

"I said, what else did you do in New York?"

"Ah," he said. "Yes." He'd recapped the first couple days for her on the walk over to Book and Snake. Now, he realized, she probably wanted to hear about his parents — but he actually had something more pressing to share. "You recall how my Monday wasn't especially productive?"

"Yeah, 'cuz of that receptionist bitch."

Darlington cringed. "She wasn't a _bitch._ " Though he could have been more generous with his description of the poor, overwhelmed administrative assistant. "She just seemed somewhat... limited in her knowledge of where anything was actually located."

"So like, her whole job."

"Regardless. She'd mentioned that Wednesday was her day off, so —"

"Oh, I see where this is going." Alex's eyes flashed in the dark. "You went rogue."

"A little bit," he confessed. "I returned to the office under the pretense of another project. When no one was looking, I accessed the Bridegroom files myself."

He'd found more than just the Bridegroom files, though. Bundled along with that thick manila folder had been two others — two more unusual deaths, both nineteenth century, both New Haven, both young women. One of the names was unfamiliar, and Darlington had to admit he didn't fully understand the connection; this girl hadn't been killed, she'd died of apoplexy.

But damned if he hadn't turned over the other file to see Paoletta DeLauro's name on the front. The Italian girl, the one who'd worked for a local rubber factory. She'd stepped out for lunch one afternoon in April 1869 and had never returned. Darlington had read her obituary back in August; he knew her. She was the girl who'd been killed at College and Wall.

Yet perhaps most compelling of all had been the notes in the margins of these girls' files. _Why not High Street?_ read one in Daisy Whitlock's file. _Triggered by unstable transformation?_ read another, on a copy of the apoplectic girl's death certificate. And it wasn't only the notes themselves, but the handwriting. Darlington had taken photos so he could compare later. Maybe he was remembering things wrong. But he could swear he'd seen that same slanted script before — in the Lethe Days Diary of Elliot Sandow, Branford College '69.

"I think Dean Sandow might have been looking into these cases during his time in Lethe," he told Alex now. "But for some reason, he never came to a conclusion."

She frowned slightly. "Or he did, and he's just kept it to himself."

"What possible reason would he have to do that?"

"Are you serious?" When he tilted his head in confusion, Alex rolled her eyes, then started ticking them off on her fingers. "Maybe someone bribed him to keep quiet. Maybe he didn't want to rock the boat and risk his position. Maybe he thought he could use the information to blackmail someone else. Hell, maybe he was part of it himself. Maybe he was only pretending to do 'research' —" she punctuated this with air quotes, "— to cover his tracks."

"Good Lord, Stern." Darlington was equal parts impressed and concerned. "Not everyone is as Machiavellian as you."

"Actually," she said, "most people are worse. But it's sweet that you think that. We're here."

They'd stopped in front of an enormous Tudor-style house. Or really, Darlington knew, a squat brick building with a Tudor exterior: the architectural equivalent of lipstick on a pig. There were several houses like this on Lynwood, and apparently this one had come to accommodate the latest band of brothers in...? Darlington squinted, but it was too dark to make out the letters affixed to the front.

This was definitely the place, though — the lights inside were blazing and flashing different colors, and he could feel the pounding bassline even from the street. He braced himself as Alex pulled out her phone to text Mercy. She smirked when she looked up and caught his expression, putting a hand to his face.

"Just channel your inner gentleman scholar," she whispered, irony playing sweetly on her tongue.

He placed his own hand over hers, drew it to his mouth. Alex sighed softly, moving closer, and his heart churned — but before he could lean in to kiss her, the front door to the house crashed open and a familiar voice called out:

"Daniel _fucking_ Arlington. What's a nice boy like you doing in a place like this?"

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Me three months ago: *starts casually writing smutfic*  
> Me now: *translating Latin and reading Greek mythology for better worldbuilding to enhance smutfic*
> 
> C'est la vie. Hope y'all enjoyed a little more plot stuff!! Stay tuned for a less-plotty next chapter 🍻


	12. Tequila Burn

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _Feeling flushed and a little wicked, Alex let her tongue dart out to taste the fruit before taking it between her teeth, succulent and sour. A river of lime juice ran down her chin. She held his gaze as she swiped it away with a finger, then sucked the fingertip into her mouth. Darlington suddenly looked as though he might shatter that glass._
> 
> A bit of fraternizing, featuring the ladies of the Vanderbilt suite.

Alex knew Darlington had lived with roommates, but she'd never heard him refer to them in the present tense. "I told them I was in a band," he'd once said, his go-to excuse for Lethe-related absences. Another time they'd passed the Elizabethan Club — a pretty white clapboard house with dark green shutters — on the way to Scroll and Key, and Darlington had mentioned that his sophomore roommates "were" members.

"What kind of club is it?" Alex had asked. "Like, what do they do?"

"They torment themselves with tedious literature," Darlington had said with a snort. "Excepting Shakespeare, of course. But Jordan and E.J. seemed to enjoy the company."

 _Seemed._ Alex wondered then if they'd fallen out over Darlington's disdain for their hobbies. Still, she doubted he'd ever insult them to their faces. And when he spoke of his roommates now, albeit rarely, something like nostalgia colored his voice. Was it just for simpler times, or did he miss them? Alex had never considered the question too deeply until this moment, when Darlington froze with his face inches from hers and whispered: "I think that's my roommate on the steps."

"What?" For one deranged moment, she thought he meant Cosmo.

"My former roommate," he amended, dropping her hand to wave. "Jordan!"

Alex looked toward the house to see a skinny, sandy-haired boy standing in the doorway, wearing a shirt emblazoned with Greek letters and a grin that took up half his face. She realized the shout she'd just heard had come from him, that he'd used Darlington's full name, called him a "nice boy." _Guess that's fratspeak for "gentleman."_

"You gonna introduce me?" she said, suddenly annoyed they'd been interrupted. Or maybe that he didn't seem to want to touch her in front of someone he knew.

"Of course," he said, brushing his lips to her temple, and Alex felt silly for even that split-second of insecurity. She followed him up the path but stopped short of the stairs, watching Darlington greet Jordan with a bro-shake and convivial slap on the back. It was like seeing a dog walk on its hind legs.

"My dude, how long's it been? A year?" Jordan pounded Darlington once more between the shoulder blades and released him. Darlington ran a hand through his hair, looking dazed.

"At the very least. I've been busy with — well, you know." Now he looked back at Alex. "Jordan," he said, beckoning to her, "this is Alex Stern, my girlfriend." The way he said it sounded like he was pronouncing the word for the first time, like he'd only seen it in books. It was strangely endearing.

"Hey." She joined them on the steps and stuck out a hand. Jordan shook it enthusiastically. "Nice to meet you."

"Nice to meet _you,_ Alex Stern. Who is this miracle woman who coaxed the monk from his cloisters?" He looked back and forth between them, as if they were going to give him a rundown on her whole life. God forbid, as Darlington would say.

"I'm just a girl who needs a drink," she said lightly. "This your joint?"

"Sure enough, sure enough. I'm social chair. Whatever you need, I'm your man."

Alex glanced at her phone. "Actually, have you seen my friends?" She pulled up a photo she'd taken of Mercy and Lauren in their Halloween costumes, right before she'd abandoned them for Manuscript. "They look like this."

"Oh, shit!" Jordan's grin somehow grew even wider. "Yeah, those girls are here. Dude," he said, clapping a hand on Darlington's shoulder, "E.J. is _way_ into the little retro one. Says she's in one of his lit seminars and she's a fucking genius. I can't believe you know them!" he nearly yelled, turning back to Alex. "We're about to play rage cage. Come on, you gotta join. Wait 'til you see what a disgrace Arlington is." And with that, he swooped back inside, leaving them to follow in his wake.

Alex arched a brow at Darlington as they stepped over the threshold. "Wow. Is he always this coked up, or is it just for parties?"

"Jordan?" he said, colored lights playing on his face. "No, he's just an excitable person."

"Darlington, any frat boy _that_ excitable is one hundred percent on drugs."

He took her hand, and Alex felt a frisson of something. "Then we'd better make sure he doesn't hurt himself."

"Always the shepherds, never the sheep." She had to raise her voice as they passed through the pulsating crowd of the dance floor. "Or the wolves? Whoever it is that gets to have fun."

"See, Stern? You're not so bad at metaphors."

"I get by with a little help from my friends. Speaking of which..."

They'd reached the kitchen, which was lit up red like a brothel, and which contained Jordan, Mercy, Lauren, and several other people Alex didn't know. Lauren was taking shots with a cluster of other blonde girls, licking salt, making faces. Mercy was perched on the counter in a mint-colored flapper dress, sipping from a plastic cup and talking to a very attractive guy: broad-shouldered, black, with a beard that made Alex think _philosophy major,_ but not in a bad way. His whole body was angled toward Mercy like a houseplant growing toward the sun.

This had to be E.J. — confirmed when he looked up and exclaimed, "Daniel Tabor Arlington. As I live and breathe!"

"People sure are happy to see you," Alex murmured as E.J. crossed the room in two strides, crushing them both in an unexpected hug. _Maybe_ this _guy's on molly,_ she thought as their faces smushed together. She felt Darlington laughing quietly beside her.

When they separated, Mercy was standing there too, raising her eyebrows at Alex. To her credit, she'd played it cool after the dorm incident ("So long as you guys aren't blood relatives, I have no dog in this fight") and now seemed genuinely happy to see them together. Or maybe she only looked that way because she was a theatrical sadist about to embarrass her roommate.

"Hey there, _birthday girl."_ Mercy said it loudly enough to regain E.J. and Darlington's attention, despite their having launched immediately into a rapid-fire catchup. Alex grimaced and caught Darlington's eye. She watched his features shift into understanding.

 _"Special occasion?"_ he said, quoting her text. "Why didn't you say it was your birthday?"

"Technically it's not 'til tomorrow." Alex felt her face heat, was grateful for the red lights. "Also, because I'm about to be a twenty-one-year-old freshman. Not exactly the kind of thing people celebrate around here."

"On the contrary," Mercy butted in, "we're thrilled we'll no longer have to circumvent the law to acquire alcohol." She held up a small drawstring bag that Alex hadn't realized she'd been holding. "And now, Alex Stern, it is time for the second part of our agreement."

Alex groaned. "Merce, it's forty degrees outside. Please don't make me wear a dress."

"Should’ve thought of that before skipping out on Inferno." She waggled her eyebrows at Alex again, then addressed E.J. and Darlington, who were somehow already talking about Proust. "I’m just going to steal her away for a minute. Keep talking amongst yourselves."

She looped an arm through Alex's and pulled her back into the hall. Lauren was hot on their heels, tan and gorgeous in a buttery silk blouse, highlighter shimmering on the apples of her cheeks.

"You guys look great," Alex said, stalling. Lauren shook her head.

"Tonight is not about _us."_ She was enunciating carefully, clearly feeling the tequila. "It's about _you_ getting out of your shell and actually doing something fun on your birthday."

"It would've been plenty fun to stay home and order a pizza."

"No dice. Here," Mercy said, thrusting the bag at Alex, "go to the bathroom and put this on." Lauren nodded, crossing her arms. She looked like a bodyguard who'd switched bodies with a celebrity client.

"I'm not changing in some disgusting frat bathroom."

"Fine, change here. We'll cover you."

From the looks on their faces, they weren't going to back down — and if there was one thing Alex knew, it was how to pick her battles. She heaved a sigh and began pulling her shirt over her head. "Don't look," she said, almost too late. The lighting was dim and her tattoos only half-there anyway, but better safe than sorry, and she didn't feel like fielding questions from curious roommates.

"Since when are you Ms. Modesty?" Mercy muttered, but both she and Lauren turned away.

More or less concealed behind them, Alex pulled the dress from the drawstring bag. The situation could have been worse: it was basic, black, long-sleeved. Though it also looked tight and more than a little low-cut. "I'm not really wearing the right bra for this."

"Look in the bag," Mercy and Lauren said simultaneously. Alex fished around and, sure enough, came up with a strapless black bra. She faced the wall to fasten it, then awkwardly shimmied the dress over her head. She kicked off her boots and jeans, wincing at the damp carpet beneath her feet, and put one foot to the wall, then the other, to retie her laces. At least Mercy hadn't insisted on heels.

"Ta-da," she said, stuffing away her street clothes. "Am I a vision of beauty or what?" She'd meant it sarcastically, but when Lauren and Mercy turned to her again, they beamed like a couple of parents on prom night.

"Girl, you really are," Lauren said, marveling. "You have such a great ass. Why don't you ever show it off?"

Alex laughed. "With what, ass cutouts?"

"You could make it a thing," Mercy said seriously. "But also, credits to me, please. I knew this would look amazing on you."

"Don't push it. Can we get back in there? I wanna talk to your new boyfriend."

Gratifyingly, Mercy blushed. "He's just a guy from my Chaucer section. We were talking about the dream visions. How does he know Darlington?"

"They used to be roommates, I guess."

"Ugh," Lauren moaned. "If you guys start dating hot roommates and going out together all the time, who am _I_ gonna hang out with?"

"They're not roommates _anymore,"_ Alex said, at the same time as Mercy said, "There's always Anna."

Lauren rolled her eyes then, but it was impossible to tell at what. "Come on," she said, marching back into the kitchen, not waiting for Mercy and Alex to follow. "Midterms are over, and Alex is an old lady. Let's go get fucked up about it."

***

Tequila had been an Alex Stern specialty back in Los Angeles, but she hadn't tasted it since coming to Yale. Still, she'd missed the simple, elegant ritual of taking a shot: the anticipation as she lifted the glass to her lips, the desert-like burn in her throat, the thrill of knowing that brushfire would soon be coursing through her veins. She'd downed two in quick succession to catch up, and now slammed a third with Mercy and Lauren — Mercy shaking her head like that might banish the taste, Lauren throwing her head back to laugh with wild abandon.

Alex licked her lips, picked up a lime wedge. She let her eyes wander. Darlington was across the room, leaning against the counter with Jordan and E.J., the three of them sharing a bottle of what looked like very expensive scotch. Darlington was the only one with an actual glass.

He glanced up just as she was raising the lime to her lips. Feeling flushed and a little wicked, Alex let her tongue dart out to taste the fruit before taking it between her teeth, succulent and sour. A river of lime juice ran down her chin. She held his gaze as she swiped it away with a finger, then sucked the fingertip into her mouth. Darlington suddenly looked as though he might shatter that glass.

"What are you doing to that poor boy?" Lauren stage-whispered. 

Alex turned back to her roommates and smiled a lazy tequila smile. "Just enjoying my last few hours of underage drinking."

"Who knew you were such a tease?" Lauren replied, pushing her in the shoulder — either playfully or just drunkenly, Alex couldn't tell. "Still trying very hard not to think about you guys being cousins, by the way."

"Adoptive cousins," Mercy said. "This is hardly an _August: Osage County_ situation."

Alex was about to ask what that meant when Jordan clapped his hands and shouted, "All right, you sons of bitches, it's rage cage time." He began clearing party detritus from the table at the center of the room. E.J. followed with a stack of Solo cups, arranging them as meticulously as Darlington would line a chalk circle.

She'd just had the thought when she saw him set down his glass, seeming to make a move in her direction — and in the same moment, Mercy grabbed her hand, saying, "And _that_ is our cue to go dance." It was funny how her hatred of sports extended even to party games. Alex wouldn't have minded a round or two of rage cage, but she wouldn't leave Mercy to dance by herself. Lauren, with all the attention span of a lush, had melded back into her group of fellow blondes.

"Just a second," Alex told Mercy, squeezing her hand, and flitted over to where Darlington was standing. He'd rolled up his shirtsleeves, exposing his forearms, and his veins jutted where he leaned against the counter. Alex remembered that rainy night at Black Elm, how his pale, delicate feet had made her feel like an old-timey pervert. Now she skimmed a finger along the tendon of his left arm, simply because she could.

"Mercy and I are gonna go dance. You wanna come with?"

Darlington blinked as if he hadn't heard a word she'd said. "Your tattoos are showing," he said in a low voice. "It's incredibly distracting."

"Really? Shit." Alex looked down to rearrange her hair over her clavicles. "Is that any better?"

"No," he said, sounding almost physically pained. "It's egregious." He brushed a thumb over one of the snake's heads, and even with her hair as a buffer, Alex felt all the blood in her body rush to the spot.

"Okay," she said, trying to focus, "well, why don't we divide and conquer. You stay here, finish catching up with these guys. I'll dance with Mercy for a bit. Once we've put in decent appearances, then we can go?"

Darlington nodded. His pupils were huge — nearly as blown as they'd been at Manuscript. _"You're_ not on drugs now, are you?"

That got through to him. "What? No, of course not."

"If you say so," Alex said, watching him carefully. "Stay safe out here. I'll see you soon." She pressed a lime-glazed kiss to his jaw, felt his breath catch. Then Mercy was pulling on her arm again and they were moving like a wave toward the dance floor.

The moment they stepped into the main room, Alex realized why she'd been gravitating toward tequila. The floor was packed with Grays. Even three shots in, she could see them everywhere — hanging around groups of sorority girls glowing with sweat and bronzer, pressing themselves lewdly against grinding couples. Alex had barely registered them when passing through to the kitchen, but now they were impossible to ignore. And she couldn't start tossing graveyard dirt in the middle of a crowded dance floor.

"I need another drink," she started to say. Mercy held fast to her arm.

"You have to pace yourself! Just a few songs, then we'll go back for another." Alex opened her mouth to protest, but the speakers were already shifting to a song that made Mercy yell, "Come on, how can you not love this one?"

And Alex did sort of love it, for once. It wasn't the abrasive rap that normally played at the frats, or the poppy remixes that came on when one of the brothers' girlfriends got hold of the aux cord. It was low, hypnotic, like a muted heartbeat, with the occasional screech to keep you on edge. Alex couldn't remember the name of the artist, but she knew most of the words. Plus she could get through one song. For Mercy.

 _"Say it, spit it out,"_ she began to sing along, _"what is it exactly?"_

 _"Is the amount cleaning you out?"_ Mercy joined in, swaying seductively to the beat. _"Am I satisfactory?"_

 _"Today, I'm thinking about the things that are deadly."_ As Alex sang the words, she realized what they were. A mutilated Gray that had been drifting toward her and Mercy now recoiled, hovering like an uncomfortable dinner guest near the wall. Alex looked directly at the figure as she chanted the next lines, her voice rising with the others in the room: _"Like I wanna drown, like I wanna end me."_

The Gray scowled at her, eyes flashing with enmity — and then disappeared entirely through the wall.

"Holy shit," Alex breathed.

Mercy and the others crooned on, oblivious. Three or four more Grays vanished through the walls. Alex could see the others growing uneasy. _"Cannibal class,"_ she sang as loudly as she dared. _"Killing the son."_

 _"Bury a friend."_ The room vibrated with bass, with people both living and dead, drunken joy and ghostly terror. _"_ _I wanna end me."_

By the end of the chorus, every last Gray was gone. Alex wanted to pinch herself. She let Mercy step on her foot. The small pain was nothing compared to the revelation. A room full of the living, bound together against them even for a minute, was powerful enough to vanquish a room of the dead. It was so goddamn cheesy. It was undeniably true.

The song changed to something faster. Lauren appeared in their orbit, clutching a trio of plastic shot glasses — clear liquor this time — and Alex threw hers back with a smile. She didn't need it; she was choosing it. The edges of the world softened pleasantly, just enough.

Another fast song came on, an old Kanye West track. Lauren screamed the words, Mercy started to laugh, and Alex laughed hard along with her. The warmth of alcohol and pure, uncomplicated happiness tingled in every one of her nerve endings.

She didn't know how long they'd been dancing when she felt a hand at her waist. She turned, ready to smack away a wasted frat guy — but of course it wasn't a frat guy, it was Darlington. His face looked like art under the kaleidoscopic lights and he'd undone the top button of his shirt. Alex was seized by the desire to rip out the rest with her teeth. She contented herself with moving into his arms.

"Hey," she said, voice sliding up an octave to be heard. "How was rage cage?"

"Terrible," he murmured. He'd put his lips to her ear. "I've never been very good at it."

"Huh. I didn't think you were bad at anything."

"Yes, well." Now he bit down gently, just above her earlobe, and Alex couldn't tell if it was the lights or if she'd actually blacked out for a second. "I've also found it quite difficult to concentrate tonight."

"Yeah. Me too. Although," she said, struggling to modulate, "I did make a little Lethe breakthrough over here."

Darlington raised his head, intrigued. "Pray tell."

"There were a bunch of Grays in here before, right? At least twenty or thirty?"

"I believe so. Again, I've been distracted."

"Well, a song about death came on and they ran for the hills. It was crazy how fast it worked. We should start singing at them all the time."

He seemed to consider this carefully. "Singing worked back at Aurelian, too. Not a bad thought, Stern."

"I have _lots_ of good thoughts. Do you want to hear the next one?" Darlington groaned a little and drew her closer, burying his face in her neck. Alex hummed, teasing him, even as her vision tunneled from the contact. "Or maybe you can guess."

"I'm calling us a car," he said into her skin. "Say goodbye to your roommates." He straightened, pulled out his phone, but couldn't seem to tear his eyes away from her. "And when you do, please relay my eternal gratitude for this dress."

"Don't tell me what to do." Mercy approached then, so Alex took advantage, snagging her by the elbow. "Hey. We're leaving. My cousin says thanks for making me look so damn bangable." Darlington choked on nothing and was suddenly very absorbed in his phone.

Mercy laughed. "Anytime. You know, I don't think he likes you calling him that."

"I'll call him what I want." Alex winked. "You should go find E.J. Talk some more about those _dream visions._ If you know what I mean."

Mercy smiled. "Yeah, I just might. See you tomorrow." She kissed Alex on the cheek. "And happy birthday."

She slipped away into the crowd and, immediately, Darlington's voice filled Alex's ear. "Don't think I've forgotten about that, by the way."

"About what, my — my birthday?" The words caught as he slid one hand over her hip, pulling her body flush against his. "I don't care."

"Still. It would be unforgivably rude of me not to give you something."

"I know something you can give me," Alex said quietly, and Darlington's phone lit up.

"Speak of the devil, Stern. Our driver is here, he's in a black Prius..." His lips grazed the back of her neck — the lower one catching such that, for an instant, she felt the wet inside of his mouth. Heat rolled in delicious waves down her spine, simmering in her abdomen. A thousand times better than any tequila burn.

"...and I, for one, am going to kiss you senseless inside that car."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This episode brought to you by: sexual tension at parties, Billie Eilish songs as death words, and my profound love and appreciation for Mercy Zhao. (In case it isn't obvious, this is my small attempt to create a parallel universe in which she never goes to that Omega Meltdown party b/c she's too busy with her nice boyfriend.)
> 
> Anyway, we're finally coming to the end of this fic!! Hope y'all like smut, because it's about go down (again, no pun intended).


	13. 'Til the End of Days

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _When they reached the kitchen door, she didn't wait for him to pull out his keys — she simply slammed him up against the wood and threw her body at his. She kissed him like he was going to save her from something, her mouth desperate, devouring. He matched her urgency, taking her roughly by the waist, pulling her closer, closer, not close enough._
> 
> The long-awaited return to Black Elm, in which Darlington thoroughly fails at being a gentleman.

Darlington wasn't bluffing this time. But he hadn't realized just how little he'd been bluffing until Alex slid into the backseat next to him and hauled him down by the collar to meet her brutal, perfect mouth.

She tasted like smoke and agave and her skin was warm, slightly damp, as if she'd just emerged from the shower. Darlington knew this because, like some kind of heat-seeking predator, he'd gone straight for the exposed skin of her legs — his hands now gripping her thighs, pushing up that tight little dress, as she unbuckled his seatbelt and climbed on top of him. It was a good thing this was the sort of car with a partition between the driver and the backseat.

Not that it was pure coincidence. Darlington, still clinging to some measure of decorum, had specifically requested such a car. Now, with Alex on his lap, his eager hands wrapped around the backs of her thighs, he thought of the road to hell and what people always said it was paved with.

“You're a leg man,” Alex gasped when they surfaced for a moment. She'd shoved him against the back passenger side window; he opened his eyes and saw they'd fogged it over. “Interesting.”

“I’d never given it much thought.” He was breathing harder than her, his voice laced with scotch and desire. “I’m certainly fond of _your_ legs.”

“Smooth operator.” She crushed their mouths together again, her body surging like a flood over his. He surrendered, allowing one hand to slide between her thighs, cupping her through her panties — and wasn't sure what he'd expected to feel, but not for her to already be soaking wet against his fingers.

“Oh, fuck,” he heard himself say. He felt Alex's smile, the sharp nip of her teeth.

“Pace yourself, Darlington. You don't want to use up all your swearing credits just yet.”

His mangled response was interrupted by the driver clearing his throat, rapping loudly on the partition. Alex straightened and shook back her hair. “Thanks for the ride,” she called through the barrier, knocking back as if attempting Morse code. “And sorry about my boyfriend. No sense of propriety whatsoever.”

Darlington thought he heard a weary sigh come from the front seat. And then he didn't care what the driver thought of them, because Alex was opening the door and they were falling out sideways and she was dragging him up the long, dark drive of Black Elm, nearly tripping them both on the gravel.

When they reached the kitchen door, she didn't wait for him to pull out his keys — she simply slammed him up against the wood and threw her body at his. She kissed him like he was going to save her from something, her mouth desperate, devouring. He matched her urgency, taking her roughly by the waist, pulling her closer, closer, not close enough.

“ _Fuck_ me,” Alex moaned when his teeth found her ear again.

“I’m very much trying to,” he murmured, wondering, in the back of his mind, whose words these were. Somehow he managed to unlock the door, and they were stumbling into the kitchen, her pinning him against the counter just as she had at Il Bastone.

But Darlington had the home advantage now. In one smooth motion, he spun them and lifted her onto the kitchen island, knocking several things to the ground. He heard Alex inhale sharply, felt her hands scrambling for purchase, caught off guard by the power shift. Then she found her bearings and was wrapped around him again.

He kissed her in earnest, enjoying the small, hungry sound she made when he pressed between her parted legs. Then came a noise of surprise, tinged with petulance, as he pulled her from the island to carry her into the hall — bypassing the staircase, a man on a mission.

“Where the hell are we going?” She might have sounded irritated if she weren't so out of breath.

“The only room in this house that’s already warded.” Darlington had forgotten to fix his bedroom before heading to New York, and he’d be damned if they were going to wait the hour it took for the spell to settle in.

“Which is?” But her question was answered as he pushed open the door to the study, dimly aglow in lights from the hall. He’d warded it back in September, worried that his fervent Bridegroom research might somehow draw the notorious ghost himself.

Now he thanked God for that paranoia as he pressed Alex into the bookshelves along the back wall. He lowered her carefully, a figure of glass, onto the small shelf bisecting them at waist level.  And then — as he’d been dying to do all night, as he’d dreamt of every night for the past week — he went to his knees.

He unlaced her boots and tugged them off gently, one after the other. He held her wild gaze, only breaking it to touch his lips to the crook of her knee, moving slowly, sensuously to her inner thigh. He hovered in place for a moment, immersing himself in her earthy scent. Savoring this feeling. This exquisite just-before.

Yet as he moved to kiss her there, Alex shifted back. “Darlington,” he heard above him. A quicksilver memory, a flash of terror: her biting his ear at Manuscript, gripping his shoulders. Trying to shove him away.

But her voice was soft now, not snarling, and she was bringing him up to meet her eyes. “Hey,” she breathed, looking at him. “Good guess. But not what I want right now.”

“What — what is it you want?” He still felt stunned from the scent of her, even more so when she hooked a finger between his belt and his jeans, drawing him in.

“For someone so smart, you can be pretty stupid.” And now she was swiftly undoing his belt and letting it drop to the floor, sliding her panties down her legs — _Christ,_ she was going to leave that dress on for him, wasn’t she? — and she moved a hand into his boxers and coaxed out his erection, guiding him until he could feel her, wet and ready.

Darlington had let his eyes close, but now they flicked open to look at Alex’s face. Wanting to make sure.

His answer was right there: her black eyes feral, her expression one of pure desire. He took a deep breath.

And at last, at _last,_ he buried himself inside her, splaying one hand against the books, trapping one of hers beneath — and Alex made a raw, choked noise he’d never heard before, her eyes rolling nearly all the way back in her head. It was alarming enough to make him freeze, even as every primal instinct screamed for him to keep going.

“You’re — you’re all right?” he managed. _Please God, don’t tell me to stop._

“Fuck,” she whispered, eyelids fluttering. “Yeah. I’m great. You’re hitting a really good spot.”

“I’m not hurting you?”

_“No,”_ she growled, slitting her eyes open to glare at him. “Keep going, or you'll be the one getting hurt.”

Cautiously, he rolled his hips, trying to control his pace, his breathing. Alex rewarded him with a sharp breath of her own. Watching her body open up to him, hearing her make those soft, desperate sounds, was almost better than the way it felt. Almost.

He rolled into her again, harder now, and her breath keened into a moan. She freed her hand from beneath his and moved it to the nape of his neck.  “Fuck,” she whispered again. “That feels so good.”

“Stern — you have no idea. I have been thinking about this for _days_.” The words loosed dangerously from his mouth as he pulled out, then plunged into her with everything he had. Alex knocked her head back and moaned fully, arousal staining her tattoos like watercolors — and if that wasn’t wholehearted permission, Darlington didn’t know what was.

He pushed into her harder, faster now, working both hands under her ass to keep her in place, groaning deep when she wrapped those gorgeous legs around him. _This should be illegal,_ he thought wildly, feeling her slick muscles contract, wanting to drink up the blush on her chest. _This feels far too good._

And forget control, forget every last speck of decorum — suddenly he was driving into her without restraint, loving the way she responded, how every part of her body rose to the challenge. He let her drop slightly so he could press a thumb to her clit, recalling how he’d touched that same thumb to her clavicle, so innocently, just an hour before. 

Now she gazed up at him, eyes burning, and drew her thighs apart for him to see. _The road to hell, indeed._

Darlington slowed to focus on her, rubbing soft circles over that small, perfect bundle of nerves, hoping to God this was right. Another quick answer as he watched Alex’s eyes roll back again in her skull, felt her nails dragging white-hot down his back.

But then — “Harder,” she rasped after a minute. Her fingers carved divots into his hips. _“Harder,_ baby.” 

“God. Alex. I honestly can’t.” He’d had to still inside her; the request had nearly sent him over the edge.

“Please,” she said, quietly now, curving her neck to reach his ear. Her mouth scattered goosebumps over his skin.

And then she said it, her voice barely a breath, a soft incantation that undid him completely: “Please, Daniel. I want you to.”

“ _Fuck_ , Alex!” He was going to come, he couldn't help himself — so he went deep again, hard as she wanted, and, like a miracle, felt her begin to convulse around him just as he shuddered his release. He kept rolling his thumb over her clit even as he collapsed, barely keeping her supported as she cried out, arching her back off the wall, cutting her nails into his skin.

When they’d gone slack against each other, heavy, ragged breaths overlapping, she laughed in his ear. “Thanks for my birthday present.”

“Thank _you_ for being born,” he said, stupidly. “Let me just — ah.” He withdrew from her and stepped back, running an awkward hand through his hair. “The bathroom is that way, if you want to —”

“On it.” She’d already hopped down and was halfway out the door. Darlington tried to take the opportunity to collect himself, but he’d hardly managed to zip his jeans before he was slumping back into the high-backed leather desk chair, legs shaking from exertion, from his frenzy. Good Lord, he hadn’t even taken off his shoes.

Alex laughed at him when she reappeared in the doorway. “You look like you just ran a marathon. A bad one.”

“You’re very exhausting,” he said, focusing on the small, glowing shape of her. “In fact, I don’t think I can get up. You’ll have to come here.”

She made a show of it, swaying her hips, tossing her tangled hair before settling herself on his lap. If he’d had more presence of mind, they could have done it this way. Not that he was complaining. Not that they wouldn’t have plenty of time, later.

He wrapped his arms around her and Alex hummed with pleasure.  “Take me to bed?”

In a moment, he would. But for now, she was loose-limbed and flushed and happy in his embrace, and he wanted to remember this. The lost girl, the haunted girl, the girl chased by the dead — he could see no trace of her now.

And as he moved to kiss her, Darlington understood, as clearly and wholly as he knew his own name, that he would do anything to keep her in such bliss. He would serve her, hold her, love her. Make love to her.  Until the very end of days.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Yes, I watched Atonement right before writing this; no, I do not have any regrets.
> 
> More such shenanigans in the next (and final!) chapter 👉


	14. The Road to Hell

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _She contemplated the fine, still lines of his face. She thought of the dead girls, and the kind of person who would concern himself with poor, young, immigrant women who'd died over a century ago. Maybe it had all started because of New Haven, because of the Bridegroom, because of dead white men and long-lost history. But this project meant something more to Darlington now._
> 
> The second morning-after, precisely a week after the first. In which the title is rendered somewhat ironic.

Alex awoke the next morning to a storm raging outside Black Elm, branches thrashing in the woods below, almost loud enough to drown out the sound of the wind. But Darlington had turned on the thermostat before they'd gone to bed — so even as the rain drilled at the window, it was cozy in his third-floor bedroom, the heat having risen like bread overnight.

As her body crept into consciousness, Alex realized they probably hadn't needed it. She was cold-blooded, literally, after being deprived for years of whatever nutrients her body needed to nurture proper blood flow. Her fingers and toes were always icy, her ears and nose helpless against a chill, especially here in New Haven.

But Darlington was _warm._ Warmer still when cocooned in a blanket and toasty thermostat air. Warmest with the length of his body pressed flush with hers, as it was now under the covers. Almost as they'd awoken exactly a week before.

They'd fallen asleep last night talking about his research, her head nodding against his shoulder as he gesticulated in explanation.

"The Mazurski girl is the real question mark," he'd been saying. "Why connect her to the others, who were clear victims of homicide? Unless those homicides were not all they appeared. Or unless she was killed in a manner intentionally _designed_ to mimic apoplexy. I wonder if that's what Sandow meant by... Stern, are you listening to me?"

"Kind of," she mumbled. "What's a mazurski?"

"She's a who. Zuzanna Mazurski. From the third file."

"That's too many syllables for me, Darlington."

"Los Angeles public school strikes again."

"Fuck you," she tried to say, but yawned cavernously in the middle. She felt the soft rumble of laughter in his chest.

"Shall I turn off the lights?" He didn't wait for her response before switching off the desk lamp, then moving to curl against her in the dark.

Now Alex lay there blinking, awake, breathing in Darlington's own deep, even breaths. She'd turned in the night so their bodies faced one another instead of being nestled together, but he must have reached for her in his sleep, because his arm was slung heavy over her waist. Pulling her to him like a planet would its moon.

She contemplated the fine, still lines of his face. She thought of the dead girls, and the kind of person who would concern himself with poor, young, immigrant women who'd died over a century ago. Maybe it had all started because of New Haven, because of the Bridegroom, because of dead white men and long-lost history. But this project meant something more to Darlington now.

Was it because of her? Did he see her in those girls?

Or maybe, somehow, he knew to look for her in their killers. _Those homicides were not all they appeared._ The words rolled around in her head like thunder. Alex shivered despite the warmth.

Then sat up, revelation coursing through her.

"Darlington," she whispered, poking him in the shoulder. _"Darlington."_

"Mmm." His voice was muffled by the pillow.

"Wake up."

"Must I?"

"Don't you want to hear my Bridegroom theory?"

His eyes eased open, unhurried. "Theory?"

"You don't need to sound so surprised."

"I suppose there's a first time for everything. Go on."

Normally she would have returned fire, but not now. "I think a ghost got into him. The Bridegroom."

Darlington's brow furrowed, still sleepy. "The Bridegroom is a ghost, Stern."

"No, I mean when he was alive. Right before he died. I think something — possessed him. Something malevolent, like you said. Maybe that's what happened to the other victims, too."

Now she'd piqued his interest. He moved to sit with her against the headboard, rolling his shoulders, gazing down at her face.

"What makes you say that?" 

She hesitated only a moment. "It happened to me once."

His eyes widened. She prayed he wouldn't ask. But he had to, of course he did. "When?"

And now she considered lying, but the words just tumbled out — "That night at Ground Zero. The night Hellie died."

She expected to see Darlington's eyes harden, feel his body recoil from hers. But if he made the connection, his face betrayed nothing. If anything, it softened. He shifted closer and Alex's breath caught, a butterfly in a net.

"Oh, Stern."

And then he was pulling her into his arms and she was drawing in long, shuddering breaths, overwhelmed by the swirl of memories, terrified that he would come to his senses and let go. But he didn't.

When the tears came, swift and silent, he only held her more tightly to his chest. She didn't even know who she was crying for. For Hellie, it had to be. But in a way, it felt like it was for him.

"It's okay," he said over and over, stroking her hair, letting her shake. "It's all right. You're safe now."

Alex laughed bitterly, hiccuping a little. "Sure I am."

"You are. Remember what I said to you a week ago?"

"That my behavior was inappropriate? That I was dumber than an eighth-grader?"

"That I would protect you," he said quietly. "As best I can."

She raised her head just enough, swollen eyes locking onto his. He gazed back at her, intense, unblinking.

"Thank you," she breathed. Even to her own ears, it sounded like something else.

"You're welcome." This did, too.

The only thing she could do was kiss him — darting quickly, clumsily, to tug him down by the hair, until he adjusted, calibrated, made their bodies fit right. They slid back into the warmth of the covers. Darlington put his hands on either side of her face and looked at her.

"Beautiful," he murmured. His thumb moved over the ridge of her cheekbone, brushing away the last of her tears.

"Fucking cheesy," she whispered, and kissed him again. And maybe it was the swear, or her tongue in his mouth, but now she felt him groan and harden against her. He let his hand fall where her dress had ridden up on her thigh, catching the edge of her skirt between his fingers.

"I never did get this dress off you, did I?"

Alex's stomach flipped. "Better late than never."

His hand tightened on her leg, but he pulled back to study her face for a moment before he kept going. Her permission granted, he put his lips to her neck, mouthing softly along her jugular, pushing back the covers so he could get both hands on her hips.

Her breathing came faster, but Darlington took his time. Slowly, so slowly, he slid the fabric of the dress up her body, fingertips electric where they trailed over her skin. His mouth broke from her neck and he raised himself up to look in her eyes. His were all pupil again, alert, hungry.

"Go on," she urged him. The dress was bunched around her waist now. She gasped when he moved his hands beneath it, reaching up to cup her breasts, then skimming back to the hem. His eagerness showed as he slid the fabric over her ribs, up to her collarbone, finally giving in and tugging the whole thing messily over her head.

"That _is_ better," he murmured, those hungry eyes taking her in.

Then he was between her legs. Alex's breathing grew rapid again, almost wet with longing.

"Wait," she rasped as he hooked a finger in her panties. "The wards. Should we — should we go back downstairs?"

Darlington glanced up at her, amusement flashing briefly from behind lust. "Impeccable timing as always, Stern. Don't worry, I got up and warded the room after you fell asleep."

"You were —" He was sliding her panties down, impatient. "You were already thinking about doing this."

"A gentleman never assumes." But now he licked his lips, tugging her legs apart, and her heart fluttered. "But I _have_ been dreaming about you all week, and I can't say I got my fill of you last night."

"Insatiable," she whispered, and then could say no more, because his tongue was inside her and it was all she could do not to cry out.

A strangled noise escaped her nonetheless as he slid down the bed, onto the floor, hauling her with him across the sheets. He took her by the legs — more roughly than he meant to, she could tell, but he wouldn't hear her complaining — and hitched them over his shoulders. With that, he fixed his hands at her hips and buried his face in her from this new, obscene angle.

For a moment he just breathed against her, so close. Then he licked her again: slowly, firmly, all the way up.

Alex couldn't look at him, or she'd be finished. But that only made the sensation stronger, the helpless ferocity of his tongue against her, tipping lightly over her clit, and then — _oh —_ moving in tight circles around just that part. He kissed her there and murmured something.

Then he flicked his tongue, hard, and the intensity of it overpowered her. _Fuck._

She came in an instant, unexpectedly, almost painfully. Her thighs tensed and shook on either side of his face. And she must have sworn out loud, because now he was groaning into her, fingers clawing at her hips — the most pleasurable punishment, or perhaps punishing pleasure, she could imagine.

The world swam back into focus. Immediately, Alex pushed at Darlington's chest with her foot and joined him on the floor.

"More," she said as she kissed him, tasting herself raw and tangy on his tongue. He'd somehow gotten his clothes off already, and when she reached for him, he felt impossibly hard. She ran her thumb over the head and he shuddered. "More, baby. Like last night."

"Not down here, Stern," he whispered, eyes closed.

"What if I want it down here?"

"I don't want to hurt you."

"I don't _care._ "

"What about this?" He stood briefly, then fell into the high-backed chair by the window. "A compromise."

He looked so fucking _good_ like that — a shiny new toy just for her to play with. Alex didn't think to argue.

The next instant she was straddling him in the chair, hands gripping his shoulders, positioning herself above him. She remembered that first time, somehow only a week ago. When she slipped him inside her now, his punch-drunk expression was exactly the same.

"Beautiful," he managed again, as she began to move. "So beautiful." His hands went to her waist, her breasts, her hair; he seemed not to know what to do with himself. At last, he gripped the arms of the chair and looked up at her, watching her ride him luxuriously, almost languorously, taking him all the way in each time.

"Stern," he said, voice gravelly. When she tongued the fading hickey on his neck: "Alex." When she switched to a rolling motion on his cock: _"Fuck."_

"What do you want?" she whispered. She knew she was giving it to him already. She just wanted him to say more.

"Can you..." He swallowed hard. Then surprised her, his voice almost breaking: "Could you say my name again?"

Knowing what would happen, Alex shifted so he was hitting even deeper, touched her own fingers to her clit. Darlington watched her hungrily, maybe a little guiltily, like he thought he shouldn't be.

She worked herself carefully, built herself up. Then, when the moment arrived, she leaned in.

"I'm going to come for you, Daniel," she gasped into his ear. Darlington made a violent, animal noise and jerked his hips up, and Alex let herself go, vision spotting with the strength of this second orgasm. Or maybe the satisfaction of feeling him follow in her wake. She kept rolling against him until it was over, the way he'd taken care of her the night before.

"Were you always this horny, or is it just for me?" she asked faintly, when he finally stilled.

"It's just for you." His face was hot against her neck; his arms had wrapped around her again. "I have never behaved like this before in my life."

"Sorry for corrupting you."

"No, you're not."

"No, I'm not."

He laughed, and the sound was like music. Reluctantly, she wriggled from his grasp and dismounted, wondering if she looked as shaky as she felt.

When she returned, Darlington was in bed again, eyes closed as if she'd sent him to sleep. She burrowed in next to him, gathering the covers around her, having grown cold from even a few minutes away. The storm beat on mercilessly against the window.

Idly, she said: "Want to just stay in bed all day? Since it's my birthday, and all."

His eyes remained closed as he wound a lazy arm around her. "If only. I have a meeting with Sandow this afternoon."

"Blow him off." Something else occurred to her. "It's not about the dead girls, is it?"

"As a matter of fact, it is. I thought I'd raise it as a potential subject for grad work. I'll tell him about what I found in New York — I'll even mention your possession theory, if you like," he said, kissing her shoulder pointedly, almost proudly. "I'm sure he'd be impressed with your initiative."

Alex sat up suddenly, casting his arm aside. "I don't think you should say any of that."

A frown creased Darlington's face for the first time that morning. "Why ever not?"

"You said he's looked into the cases himself, right? But he's never mentioned them to you, or in any official Lethe records."

"Yes. Again, I don't think he ever came to a conclusion."

"But shouldn't there still be _something?"_ she said. "Even if it was a dead end, wouldn't he have written about it in his Lethe diaries or whatever?"

"Maybe he did, and I just don't remember. And don't tell me _you've_ gotten through all the old delegate diaries."

"I'm sure you would remember. And I did read Sandow's, actually." Well, she'd skimmed them. But Alex knew she was right — most of the entries were so dull that something like this would have leapt right off the page.

"What are you suggesting?" Darlington was no longer frowning, exactly, but he certainly looked perplexed. "That I pretend I didn't find anything, including his past notes? That I lie to him?"

"Not a real lie. Just a lie of omission."

"That's not particularly my style, Stern."

"Are you going to tell him what I told you before, about Hellie?" She was asking him partly as a test. How many dots had he connected? Would he continue to protect her if he connected them all?

She still couldn't tell how much he knew, but if his expression was any indication, it didn't matter. "No. I wouldn't do that. It might raise doubts about your tenability."

"Well, that's a lie of omission. You'd do it to protect me. Why not to protect yourself?"

"Why would I have to protect myself from Sandow?"

Alex narrowed her eyes. "You don't think sticking your nose in his business might end in something bad for you?"

"Dean Sandow is a good man."

"He's _the_ man," she said fiercely. "He's the head of Yale fucking University. Which means he can do whatever he wants to us."

This was the difference between her and Darlington: he had been brought up to trust the establishment, the institution, the people who looked like him and Sandow. He thought he was safe in his Ivy League bubble. But Alex knew better; she knew that when you started kicking up trouble, no matter who you were, the establishment would turn on you. They'd feed you to the wolves.

And sure, maybe her gut was off — maybe this was nothing. But she felt it now, that chilly sensation of _wrong,_ a minor twinge of what she'd felt when she first met Ariel back in L.A. She'd known to listen to her instincts then, but she hadn't gone far enough. She wasn't about to risk someone else she loved because she was scared of coming on too strong.

"Listen to me." Alex moved down again to Darlington's eye level. She put a hand to his face, made sure he was hearing her. "Don't say anything to him. I'm serious. Something about this isn't right, and I don't want anything to happen to you."

"Nothing's going to happen to me," he said. He took her hand, twined their fingers together on the sheets. "But if you insist... I won't mention it."

Relief flooded through her. "Good. Thank you."

"I'm curious as to what you think I should do instead, however. Should I forget about these cases?"

"No, I think we should keep looking into them."

Darlington's brows went up. _"We?"_

"Yeah. I'll help you. I care about this stuff too, you know."

"You never fail to surprise me, Stern," he murmured, tracing the pad of his thumb over her palm.

"I contain multitudes," she said, and leaned in to kiss him. She moved her mouth softly, tenderly over his, and he responded in kind, sliding a gentle hand through her knotted hair.

Some kisses were rough and urgent, leading to something. And some were simply for the sake of kissing. Alex could count on one hand the number of times she'd experienced the second. What a thing it was, it turned out. To be kissed out of love and nothing else.

"Excellent literary reference," he said when they broke apart. "Not quite as good as Dante's _Inferno_ , but there's time for you yet."

"Mmm," she murmured, and cupped her palm to his beautiful face once more. "Yeah. We definitely have some time."

***

From the Lethe Days Diary of Daniel Arlington (Davenport College):

_Don’t go to a Manuscript party. Or do. These things have a way of working themselves out._

(addendum, in different handwriting: _Well, not for that girl who still thinks she’s a tiger. But he wasn’t_ totally _wrong._ )

***

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> WE DID IT, Y'ALL. And honestly, seems fitting for this to end on Halloween! Happy Darlington's bonerversary to us all.
> 
> Thank you so, so much to everyone who's followed this story — if you've read to the end, I straight-up love you. I would so appreciate you leaving kudos or a comment if you liked, and/or come find me on [tumblr](https://pancakelady.tumblr.com/)! (I rarely post, but I lurk in the NH tags/group chat on mobile, and my messages are always open 💌)


End file.
